


Draw

by thevs



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood Magic, Character Study, Eventual Romance, F/M, Grey Wardens, Hurt/Comfort, Lore Speculation, Slow Burn, Withdrawal Symptoms, guilt galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2018-11-06 12:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11036367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevs/pseuds/thevs
Summary: The Inquisition is a mighty beast, fervent and battle-ready; and the Grey Wardens are yet to survive its war. Dishonored and spread thinly across southern Thedas, their numbers shrink once again.Crossing the familiar borders, Warden-Commander of Ferelden finds herself in a difficult spot: with a threat of Corypheus looming over her homeland, she has no choice but join the amassing force of the Inquisition, hoping to learn the fate of her missing wardens along the way. The proud fortress of Skyhold draws in the most unlikely crowd, one friendly face too many, and for Warden Amell, the pull of the old temptations might prove a little too hard to defy.She is, however, not the only one to face such struggles.





	1. In hushed whispers

As if to empathise the vast pit between the nobility and the common folk, the Hightown in the City of Chains stood all the way on top of the, seemingly infinite, stairs, rousing the question of whether or not the nobles ever even left their mansions to travel. The docks stood as low as the waters, so carrying anything up and down posed itself a dreary task.

The Veil, or rather how thin it was, bothered her a great deal, but the tantalising chanting drowned in the voices of the city. She couldn't help but feel relief at that: had Kirkwall truly been abandoned, the journey through it would have been harder to withstand.

She couldn't remember any of scenery, unsure still if she should have, much less when it was so tarnished with fighting and looting. Some fires still burned alive, but for all she knew it could have been kindled merely for cooking. Even so, despite the numerous reports from, allegedly, eye witnesses, the city painted a better picture in the aftermath of its infamous showdown. People were out and about, twitchy, visibly responsive to any rasp motion or sound, but people nonetheless. Not all of them were even hardened combatants, if the dour faces were any indication.

Many houses, particularly in Lowtown, which she had to trot through, were clearly not only inhabited, but also quite well maintained, mostly using thick cloth and planks of soft wood to fix the gaping holes in the structures. Far and in-between there were gardens, fairly successful thanks to the stone walls left standing, protecting the city from the icy winds of the Waking Sea.

After a while, and mostly out of breath, she reached the top levels of the city: no better for the wear than everything she had seen so far, worse even. Within minutes of circling the streets she spotted three mansions with broken doors and windows, scorch marks on the once embellished walls and the contents no doubt long gone and sold. Despite that grim picture, there were guards, or so she figured: the description of their uniforms she had been given was quite vague. "Look for orange," she had been told. "Oh, and self-important faces." Unlike in Lowtown, they were easier to come by, perhaps more welcome too. One of them, a man whose eyes through the slits of his helm betrayed the weariness and age, moved to approach her when she stopped to reach for a hand-drawn map in her bags, but his partner, she witnessed, held him back with a firm hand.

Other than them, no one desired to approach her, even with the air of tension that engulfed Kirkwall no matter the area. Were it for the thick cottons that shielded her armour from the view? Were it for the sword, the hilt of which peeked whenever she set her left foot forward? Both seemed unlikely, and she wasn't discarding the danger of an ambush just yet. Still, the obvious lack of templar armour and mage robes was glaring, more than in any city before. Sadly, she had been unable to gather anything on the state of the Circle itself: eyes had rounded when she inquired, stutters had followed, and that was it. The library, she told herself, was a trip for another day.

The house she was looking for did not take long to be discovered. The thick vines grew densely around the front of the building, some hanging above the firm front door. There were dents on the walls, spells and swords alike, but it didn't look like the fighting carried through to the insides. She hesitated upon discovering glyphs, skillfully hidden in the overgrown shrubbery, their faint light barely noticeable. The layout, however, was matching that of the sketchy map she had tucked in the pocket.

She couldn't help but stare at the ornate shield hung on the entrance, its counterpart on the other side was missing. The heraldry was intricate, very Marcher in style, and seeing it formed a tight knot somewhere at the base of her throat. It was unfamiliar, yet so strangely agreeable... She shook her head, looked around for good measure, and proceeded to move inside, careful about the steps around the glyphs. The door, despite the damage it had suffered, looked sturdy.

Upon closer look there were barriers, magical in nature, their energy swirling around the wood and the stone ever so slightly. This was to be expected, hardly anything else would have served a decent protection in the face of chaos. Closer to the door she was less visible to the passersby, but not less wary of using magic in the wake of what had transpired in the city. Her staff, left behind as a caution measure, would have helped with the focus, of course, but now she had to rely on the glyphs, as her attention narrowed to the door in front. In the stillness, she summoned the fade shield to be less visible as the last safeguard.

The spells had been cast with great skill and in no rush, she noticed, strain creeping to her temples in the attempts to dismantle the barriers. This was hardly her expertise too: grand explosions came easier than delicate disassembly.

She was unaware how long it took until the door gave in, but she counted three lyrium potions that she had to down in-between. Swiftly, she moved inside and pressed her back into the solid wood, closing the door back again. More glyphs, of course. In plain sight this time, almost like a challenge to whomever managed to get through the entrance. She discovered her lips curled into a smirk.

It took more time and more lyrium, but at least she had become familiar with the nature of the spells, going though them with more ease. With another smirk, she realised the next door might just as well have revealed a demon.

Inside, however, there was silence, safe for the soft cracking of a burning fireplace, warmth and order. She discarded the fade shield almost unknowingly. The soft padding under her feet swallowed the sounds of her steps, as she measured them towards the centre of the room. Her hood fell down as she took the room in wall to wall, ceiling to floor, noting the staircase, the desk littered with letters, the paintings and the distinct stillness. Someone lived there, of course, but first she took a few sweet moments to expose her hands to the warmth of the fire. The wet of the travel was still clinging to her clothing, after all, and following the work on the barriers, some comfort wouldn't have gone amiss.

She didn't take long to check out the parchments piled on the desk, those on the very top addressed to the Champion herself. Urgent, distressed, appealing; the names she had never heard and probably never would, they all called out for help. Upon a closer inspection there was noting from the Champion there, no unfinished draft or a discarded note, save for a quill tucked into a bottle of dry ink.

With a soft sigh, she moved onto the paintings. One hang right in front, some noble in a fine attire, unfamiliar as anything else. Another repeated the heraldry with more careful lines than that on the cloth strapped to the shield outside the mansion. And then there were more people, the portraits covered with a thin layer of dust, lined along the walls and the staircase leading to the second level of the house. She slowly moved up, until there was one painting she couldn't shake off.

A woman, hair of bright red, with a faint but sour smile on her lips, hands one on top of the other in her lap. Almost at an instant she brought her own hand to a lock of loose hair and let it slide down to her side. The bewilderment claimed her senses, mouth slightly agape. The image brought a tingling sensation to her chest. _Could it be?.._

The sound of a bow string being drawn pulled her out of the trance.

"Now, how did you get in here?" a woman's voice spoke, drawn like that of a proper Marcher.

She didn't move and didn't flinch, but recounted the available defences, "May I turn around?" A pause followed.

"No funny business."

It sounded like an agreement, so she slowly turned to face the armed opponent. Across from her and down the stairs was an archer clad in road leathers, long brown hair loose around her face. The woman's eyes were trained on her, restless about the sword, its hilt sticking out from under the cloak. That made two of them.

"I wasn't aware the Champion preferred bows," she offered, ignoring the original question.

"So you're here for her?" the other woman squinted, putting even more pressure on the drawstring. The archer's arms were steady.

"Not really," she let the answer sink in for a short while as she considered the options. "I didn't think I would find her in Kirkwall, truth be told, but I would not pass a chance to talk."

"Then what are you here for?" the disdain in the woman's voice was rising. Not a good sign by any means.

She tilted her head slowly, cautiously. "I was led to believe this is my ancestral home. If it is yours as well, I apologise for trespassing. If it is not, I suggest you leave while you still can."

The other woman chocked a laugh and briefly glanced at the painting at the top of the stairs.

"That is Revka, my father's cousin. Are you one of hers? You were staring."

The name stirred no memories, but the sentence sucked the air out of her lungs nonetheless.

"One?.." the word escaped in a weak whisper, her heart bursting in the tight chest. In a shaky breath she found the will to straighten her voice. "I wouldn't claim to know."

"I see. Well, since we are both still alive, I suppose introductions are in order. My name is Charade," the woman lowered her bow, fingers easing on the weapon.

"Solona," she responded, perhaps too eagerly. "So you are not the Champion, I take it?"

"No, she left a long time ago," Charade shook her head, bitterness painted across her tired face. "I don't know where she is and I believe it to be for the best… Are you from a Circle? I mean, before-"

She listened in on the room, tension spreading through her spine to her limbs. Paranoia was a bad look on her, quite possibly a symptom, but she let it reign regardless. Perhaps a certain amount of anxiety in Kirkwall was a must.

"Yes," Solona paused for good measure, expecting an ambush to spring. "The Ferelden Circle."

Charade allowed herself a gasp, shoulders dropping in surprise, "Are you the Grey Warden?" The low murmur carried itself just fine through the otherwise silent room.

"Grey Warden Commander," she corrected, if only to give whoever was or wasn't listening some food for thought. She was not one to be trifled with. "I'd rather we keep this between us, Charade."

"I understand," the other woman nodded and strapped her weapon onto her back. Her features softened, and, as if by magic, she looked younger. "I've heard of you, you know: Revka's second child, sent all the way to Ferelden. Saved us all from the Blight."

"Oh," was all she provided in response.

Charade smiled and walked to the fireplace, relieving herself of the bags she had at her side. Her weapon remained on, and Solona couldn't help but find it reassuring. "Are you hungry? We can talk while we eat, right?"

Numbly, the mage walked down the stairs, knees reluctant to cooperate. Her head was bursting, and even with her back turned she could feel the painting of a woman - presumably her very own mother - just being there. Her temples throbbed, the heartbeat too loud and insistent. It was all and nothing she had expected it to be: the city, the estate, the odd longing. Many questions piled up at the tip of her tongue - she forced them down instead. The papers in her bag came first, after all. This was, she sternly reminded herself, just a secondary, self-indulgent, quest.

"I wouldn't say no to a broth," she finally said, muscles on her face relaxing if only a little.

\---

Trevelyan stood before them: the lacerations on his face were well healed, but still visible, and the lack of sleep had imprinted under his eyes. The road from Redcliffe to Haven had been long and unkind. He spoke fast, but his urgent words were mostly repeating what Leliana had already relayed to them.

"The Elder One, whatever it is- Fiona said it was more powerful than the Maker... So, Celine assassinated," he recounted on a gloved hand, "a demon army and- I heard a dragon."

Leliana and Cullen spoke over each other, and in the following pause Josephine chimed in, "We could inform the Empress, but as of now our word carries no weight given we have nothing other than the Inquisitor's experience in the- past." She nodded, more to herself, easing into the though of time travel. "That is, as a matter of fact, nothing."

Josephine looked apologetic.

"And this demon army?" Cullen made a small step to the side, leaning on his sword to tame the agitation. His neck felt as stiff as his jaw, the tension heavy and certainly unwelcome. He was sure his face looked farthest from friendly. "Was it really wise to bring in the mages in light of this revelation?" Cassandra scoffed, more likely in agreement than not.

"Certainly better than having them wander around, desperate," Trevelyan retorted, lips twisting . "We don't know where the demons came- are, _are_ coming from."

"We don't know a lot," Leliana agreed, arms neatly folded on her chest. The grim expression she had carried into the chantry hall never left her face. "And still no word from- No matter."

Josephine scribbled something with just enough pressure to make an audible sound. "I will need to arrange a channel for lyrium. It's for our mages, Commander."

"Either way, we use what we have. Let's focus on the Breach," Cassandra stepped forward and eyed the group. The man at her side nodded absentmindedly, and Cullen had only enough patience and compassion to not argue any further.

"I will arrange the defences then. With so many mages in one place, we can never be too careful," he explained, answering the Trevelyan's weary but questioning look.

"Right," the other man waved dismissively. "And Leliana, see to the situation in Orlais. Josephine is right, we need more to go on."

Within moments the chantry hall was almost empty again as Trevelyan dragged himself away to finally rest. Only the Spymaster and the Commander stood there, mentally weighing the tasks respectively ahead of them.

"Something bothering you?" Cullen asked, noting the deep crease between the woman's eyebrows.

"No," she replied firmly and unfolded her hands, eyeing him from head to toe. "I just need to write some letters."


	2. From the ashes

With how much she had seen already, it was a wonder that the story weaved by the newly-discovered cousin left Solona with a spoon full of food in her hand hanging aimlessly in the air. Charade was good with words and offered an occasional joke, which seemed rather fitting given how grim the story of the Amell family turned out to be.

The estate was the last thing left standing of their good fortune, wasted when the numerous relatives had decided themselves capable of dealing with the underworld - Solona's very own grandfather no less. Charade was all too eager to cast blame on her father as well, although she seemed fond of him anyway. The man, Gamlen, didn't live in the estate, preferring the closeness of the Hanged Man, the trusty local tavern, to the occasional company of desperate looters.

Charade knew little of the other part of their family, save, perhaps, of how it came to its poor state in a blast of unfortunate events. She danced around it, as well as she could without being obscenely obvious, but came to share the solemn story of Revka Amell, disoriented and broken, wandering the streets of Hightown after her firstborn was taken away by the templars. A boy, Charade had heard, but she confessed grimly she had never really asked her father to confirm.

Solona tried to reconcile the figure from the story with the portrait she occasionally stole a look at. Longing twisted her stomach into a burning knot, the sounds of the fire acute in her head. She felt its heat lay a burn on her right eye and rubbed it soothingly. A noble woman with a litter of mages, each and every one. No wonder the people spoke of a curse.

Bitterness flushed over her and clutched her throat in a firm grasp.

"They said-" Charade swallowed hard and glanced at the bowl in her hands. Solona couldn't help but wonder how popular that story was. "Said your father took other children away then. From the scandal, I suppose. And from the templars."

"Do you know his name?" was all the mage asked, empty dish set aside and hands roaming the arms of her chair.

Charade squinted and took a deep breath. The fires danced on her face, and the warm shade did justice to her soft features. The two women looked nothing alike.

"I think he tried to flee to Ansburg," she said slowly, words weak and eyebrows furrowed. Solona leaned in. "I never really heard much else."

The mage dropped her head, fingers of both hands lacing around each other, and Charade shifted in her seat. The soft fabrics rustled. "I could ask my- Or we can search for books around here! I'm sure there is the full lineage written down somewhere, your siblings too."

One for a fine memoir, true.

"If we have time," Solona looked up to meet her cousin's eyes, hoping a smile wasn't too misplaced. She had little faith they ever would. "I appreciate it."

"I know this is- odd, to say the least. I haven't lived that life either," Charade raised one hand in the air and withdrew it quickly. "But it is nice."

Her cousin's lips moved into a smile, and just as Solona felt a twinge to follow suit, Charade gasped.

"Have you met cousin Carver? He's a Grey Warden too!" the soup in her lap splashed just as enthusiastically.

"Funny, that," the mage leaned back into her chair and gestured at the space around them. "That is how I learned of this. Someone named Varric sent me a letter-"

"Of course he did," Charade laughed and drew the free hand to her mouth. "Sorry, go on."

"Oh. So he insisted I have to look out for this boy. Said that is what family does."

"You didn't believe him."

"No, I didn't. I think I grew curious with age though."

"Marian says cousin Carver is simply _delightful_ ," Charade scoffed and pushed a wild lock of hair behind her back. "Marian, the Champion."

The mage nodded, and in the warm silence tossed a piece of kindling into the fire. The boy was with the Orlesian wardens: she knew as much because she had inquired. "Do you mind if I have another bowl?"

In the morning, having spent the night in an actual bed with no danger of being assaulted by bugs or assassins, a very restful night at that, Solona left her family behind to scout the Gallows, despite Charade's animate protests that involved colourful descriptions of bandit gangs and moving statues. When none of that prompted even a quirked brow, the woman remarked that the guards, however, were fine.

Solona didn't expect people to be loitering around, and she was right on that account. That section of the city oozed the dark presence brought upon by the thinning of the Veil, and the small window of opportunity in which looting still seemed like a decent idea had long since closed. There was nothing barring the entrance, nothing but common sense and fear, and the citizens of Kirkwall, apparently, had plenty of both.

Pulling in the hood further down on her face, Solona stepped through the dismantled gates.

There had never been a shortage of ingenious ways for mages to describe the tower of Kinnloch Hold. Its stone was dark and the spires sharp, it had always been easy to call it a prison, a cell even, on an occasional day when the walls felt particularly overwhelming. One could argue, as the rooms encircled the central hall on each floor, and the masterful woodwork and bright drapery kept it pristine and livable. The Gallows, on the other hand, didn't shy away from the comparison. In a place known to have risen from slavery, the statues were nothing but crude.

The hairs on her skin stood up as she approached the Circle residence; the cold of neither the morning chill or the sea breeze. The walls were marred, the flame tongues all too easy to imagine, first burning at the attackers, then lashing out of control and engulfing the casters and the fiends alike. The flash of heat across her hand, she noted, was either the Fade reflection or her mind figuring out where the spell had gone wrong.

She was no stranger to violence, to gore and to death, and likely out of respect the rooms had been cleared of bodies. But the traces, small and large patches of blood, greedily soaked by the stone and wood, remained a hollow depiction of the fight. Squinting, it was easy to mistake it for scorching.

The entrance gallery and the dining hall were left behind as she trudged over the destroyed desks and benches into the narrow corridors. A handful of doors, sharp teeth of wood sticking out where they had been burst open, allowed to peg them for the living quarters. Thin grey mist danced at her feet - her shoulders tensed, right hand pulling out Spellweaver, her sword, with a sleek ringing sound.

The whisper grew larger, breaking into a choir of blank voices, and she hunched her shoulders moving forward. In a dark room, hurdled over a bed but never touching it, was a sheer presence, swaying gently from side to side. In place of a face, framed by the brims of a hood, was a set of fangs, glistening even in the faintest light that seeped tрrough the pulled curtains.

Cold pain rushed up to her knees, a sharp flash of light hit the room as her sword blocked a torrent of ice shards. She tossed a bolt of lightning at the creature - it responded with a high, worn-out shriek and quivered, jumping to the side as Solona launched another crackling arch. With one step she landed on her right side, joints bursting with pain over the tight grip that managed to keep the sword in her hand. The ice underneath stunted her movements as she rolled out of the way of another freezing cone, and ended with her back perched against the bedfoot. Pain bolted through, a tight clot in her chest.

The search - all in vain. She wasn't the only one afraid, wasn't the only female. If others had found nothing, what chance did she stand? The Ashes, merely a legend, found. The Calling? There was no cure, just wasted time and wasted resource.

Dark beams engulfed the creature as the hex gained action. Weakened, it floated closer to the ground out in the hallway. Solona dashed after it and came to rest her weight against the door frame before she peeked outside. Crooked shards passed within inches of her face, and she conjured a spell, wild energy causing her fingers to go numb.

The creature got trapped in the cage, slowed, but continued to rock in the air.

Left her duty behind, speaking of a higher purpose. Lies. Once again serving herself above else. Once again turning up empty-handed. Deserved so. There was no escaping the Song. Ferelden would drown in it. Ferelden would burn again.

_Flames_ , resounded in her head. Flames.

The heat formed between her fingertips with little thought. The creature shrieked, angling to reach her behind the archway. Solona tossed the ball of fire just as it launched another attack - in a hiss it reached thin limbs out to the ceiling, flames licking its silhouette away.

She prepared the shield and stepped out, the hurt in her hands slowly spreading. The woman shook her head at the sight of ashes, and the rising agitation was brought to a halt. She had no right to be that easily strung, no such luxury, but the treachery of Despair laid in painful comfort it provided. Solona recalled Pride's curious piercing gaze. That, she had to carry with her.

The room that the demon had been drawn to had a scanty pile of belongings, crammed into one of the corners: few dusty rags, a pack of notes and a rotten fruit. Next to it, a summoning circle. She nudged one of the crystals away with her foot - the mist faded but the low hum persisted.

She sheathed her sword and retreated back to the dining hall. In the corner of her eye, a motion, faint swirls of energy, floating aimlessly in the space of the room stretching up to the tall ceiling. She counted merely a dozen of such clouds, all disinterested in her arrival, and chose the door at the eastern wall.

Overturned, a chaos of books, intact or otherwise, shelves piled on one another - before her was the library of the Kirkwall Circle. She felt herself lucky, going through the tomes, and time melted away as she studied the covers.

She emerged hours later to find Charade at the market. Lowtown was loud in the middle of the day, people fussing around with coin firmly clutched between their fingers. Solona wasn't the only hooded figure in the crowd, but Charade had learned her cloak well to spot the warden first.

"They say it's no good out there, something about the wind and the tide," Charade clasped her hands, eyes locked on the mage's bruised cheek. "A week, possibly more. I wish I had better news."

"It's alright, I would yet refrain from crossing the sea anyway," Solona gently patted the bulky sack at her side, belts biting at her shoulder, and the fact of the delay hardly settled in her head: the throbbing gnawed at her temples to that moment. With a nod, Charade led them to the tavern, an obvious reference to its name hanging above the door. Inside, she pointed at the dimmed corner furthest from the fireplace that was a poor amenity with a pile of grey and cold dust in its belly.

Charade ordered wine for herself and suggested Solona tried the local pig oat mash. The mage, always hungry to some extent, gladly complied.

When the waitress with thick lips and bony arms, apron spotlessly white, left, the question of the warden's trip hung heavily in the air. Before Charade's questioning gaze turned into words, Solona leaned forward and spoke in a tame voice.

"For one, I think I have something to restore those wards on your doors."

\---

There had been little hesitation before the march on the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and Cullen was privy to the full assessment of their affairs: everything had had to run as intended or else they were ash and a brand of foolish _dead_ heretics. Despite that, despite his grim stance, his silent wariness, fingers twitchy around the weapon at his side, - Trevelyan had succeeded.

Dishevelled, the man refused to do anything but stay around, tending to the celebration with his presence - perhaps, the only thing he had left to give. For many that was sufficient, a moment of glee in the aftermath of a feat nothing short of a miracle, further embellished by the proximity of someone they considered touched.

Cullen refused to sit down, fearing that his body, once it assumed a somewhat comfortable position, would cease to cooperate. The rundown of the forces and the weaponry had been complete, mages tended to, most of them slouched with exhaustion around the tables brought out for celebration. Yet, his mind wouldn't rest, agitated by the implications of their achievement and the heat radiating off his body, squeezing his throat like a tight noose. Rather than make it worse with ale, which Josephine had procured on a short notice and in abundance, he kept his gaze buried in the thick pack of reports, hoping that it painted him enough of a bore to prevent any attempts to communicate.

He felt tired, naturally, but knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep. Many nights he had spent blissfully in the dark, perhaps not as rested in the mornings as he desired, but free. Other times though he had woken after a bout of tossing, drenched in cold sweat, someone's whimpering still lingering in his ears. He had long forgotten the distinct tones, the things that allowed him to assign names to the gnarly remains, and remember who died how - it was truly a blessing drenched with guilt. Few things in his life were ever free of guilt.

Varric passed him, entirely in his element, chatting up some scout. As he gestured, the drink splashed out of his mug darkening the snow at his feet. Made him look reassuring, encouraging the people to let loose and savour the victory, but Cullen knew better. For those that had dealt with the rifts firsthand, the work had only just begun.

Cullen's right knee chose a fine moment to be difficult, throbbing and dull ache making him slouch. He allowed himself to grunt, as it drowned in the sounds of music and laughter. There were herbs that, crushed and added to wine, soothed his pains in their weak state, allowing him healthy days. But as the Inquisition's demands grew, he often forgot to resupply and wouldn't think of touching the healer's stocks. He often wondered which choice was more selfish.

Forgetfulness, he had learned to tame: it preyed on small details first, those faded away quite naturally. But he chose to edge on the side of caution, writing things down in a small journal with a plain cover of dark leather. It sat in a pocket on his chest, wrapped in a cloth together with his coin. Cullen read it occasionally, and it brought him relief to know that he still remembered almost everything in there. That was his grounding, that and Cassandra's stout presence.

The woman was not far away, he could spot her all too easily. Another stranger to a celebration, she maintained an aloof stance throughout her conversation with a bunch of fresh recruits from Rainesfere. They were on duty and armed, Cullen knew, and were to go through the event completely sober. Perhaps hanging around Cassandra was their way of ensuring so.

Eventually, she strolled away, following the path towards the chantry entrance. Trevelyan had managed to tear himself apart from the crowd and was observing the celebration from up there. Cullen turned back to the report in his hands: their position in the Storm Coast was shaky at best, but with their forces securing the, however questionable, loyalty of the Blades of Hessarian, it was improving fast, bolstering their stocks of spindleweed and iron. It allowed to keep an ear to the ground about the darkspawn activity in the region too, and the thought it could one day spike was rather unsettling.

He never planned to reach as far as to have dealings with the blighted monsters, but he had to have the men prepared for that outcome. He had always remembered that, so when the Inquisitor brought a real warden into their ranks, Cullen couldn't help but feel a rush of relief. It wasn't much in the grand scheme if things, but it was vastly better than nothing.

"Commander!" Lysette, voice uncharacteristically high and piercing through the crowd's cheer, ran towards him with her sword drawn. Heat crawled up to his ears, heart dropping momentarily. He rushed to intercept, numb feet stumbling at the first step.

"An enemy, an army. Approaching Haven, fast."

He drew a grated breath, felt his fingers buzz with tingles.

"Bryce!" Cullen yelled over his shoulder, a figure a few feet away jolting to attention. "Get your outfit ready, full armour, now."


	3. Homecoming

The ship rocked violently on the virulent waters of the Waking sea, and Solona somehow found it within her to swallow down the settling nausea. The vessel was old, with salty water chewing through the metal parts, and a crew was sunburned, ointment glistening across the patches of red skin. The hull of the ship was filled with crates of spice from Antiva, its previous port, and fresh vegetables from the Marches. That wasn’t the full list, of course, but that much was revealed when the question inevitably found the captain. It was believable enough that a guard, a man of firm build, a cautious glare and no desire for a chat, was required to oversee their safe delivery.

The passengers were only few, squeezed in as an afterthought: three families whose children enjoyed the challenge of running around in the stuffed hull, six lone travellers and a quiet man that remained on his bunk through the greater part of the trip, leaving once or twice to secure his meal. Even though for strangers to strike up a conversation was a rare moment, the hull was loud with the sea and the screeching of old wood. Rather quickly the constant bumping into people and shipping crates, strict rationing of food and the unmanageable state of her hair became a nuisance.

Her bed, a contraption of wood and fabric, was almost dry - at least not wet enough to be aggravating - and food was half-decent. Plain, ironically lacking any spice, and of quite bland colour, it was sufficient to sustain her, more so with the few days’ supply of bread, dried apple bites, cheese cubes and raisins stashed among her belongings.

Solona dedicated most of the trip to reading the book Charade had dug out from the endless chests in the estate cellar. It told the story of their lineage, dating to the Fourth Blight, and it was a much safer option among the available: journals of Nevarran dragon hunters, research into kossith legends and most of all notes by the warden mages of Hossberg, offhandedly mentioning blood magic. Those she had stowed away along with her armour and staff, at an extra charge.

Occasionally, when the rocking down a little, she headed upstairs onto the deck to catch a fresh breeze. The chatter and the yelling drowned out in the loud voices of the sea, and she would take it in thirstily.

Unfortunately for her the ship was headed towards West Hill, and she hadn't possessed enough gold to convince a captain in the docks to depart for Amaranthine two weeks ahead of his schedule. Trade was difficult in Kirkwall, and with the further escalation of the conflict between mages and templars it didn't get any better.

Three days through the mountains, three more on the Pilgrim's path, she assessed. The estimate hinged heavily on her acquiring a horse with what little money she had left, and in all her years she came to discover she had absolutely no penchant for bargaining. And horses? Despite being a half-decent rider, she could only tell a bad purchase if the animal was missing a leg. She preferred not to think about it too hard.

Solona hunched over the railing on the deck and rested her hands firmly against the wet wood. At once she felt the salty water burn at the damaged, tender surface of her lips. The coastline of Ferelden was visible from afar, but the ship was set to go further into the bay between the Bannorn of the Waking Sea and the Storm Coast. Winds were strong in the area despite the proximity of land on both sides.

However thrilling it was to come back home, the fact remained she wasn’t returning victorious – anxious rather, short on supplies, eager to check up on her troops and with only two vague, if not conflicting, leads on her hands. With a lot of assumption and obscure reference she had only one clue to go on until she passed the texts to Avernus: running through her findings, translated under a dim light in a dusty crumbling tavern, was an allusion to 'dragon blood'.

Last time she checked, the old mage was still neck deep in his research on the connection between the wardens and the darkspawn. What would he make of it if she tossed dragons into his lists of experiments?

They hit port early in the morning after sitting in the anchorage through the night. She had hoped that once she left Kirkwall, the pestering hum in her head would stop, but it only gained strength the closer she got to Ferelden. The constant current of thoughts intervened and kept the disturbance down, but, rather unfortunately, the hum was akin to hearing the darkspawn, only not as loud.

Solona had to dally, leisurely observing other passengers as they scurried, to fetch the rest of her belongings. The grim sailor did not inquire about her staff, a coin turned in at the right time went a long way, and with a heavy sack tossed across her back she trod into the town.

Despite the early hour, West Hill port was bustling with life. Seafood trade went on with a distinct smell, at a respectful distance the merchants were laying out their mixed stocks. People were naturally wary of her weapon, her staff in fact, but only followed her with their eyes long enough to know she wasn’t attacking. In Ferelden, Solona felt, she had little to fear.

She found an inn with little effort, an old house with a second storey, draped windows and two casks at both sides of the door. A drunkard was, as tradition had it, sleeping just below the porch, his loud snores amusing no one.

The owner, a man with a thick red beard and a large balding spot on top of his head, inspected her from over the counter lazily as she entered. Her bag hit the doorframe, and the ringing sound alerted two patrons sipping on their mead. The sun was still a faint strip of light on the horizon, and the only sources of light were a large fireplace and few dying candles.

“I need a breakfast, a room, directions around the town and all the latest news,” she placed both elbows on the counter surface and swept the hair off her face. “Which can I get here?”

“All of it, if you don’t cause trouble,” he grunted back and eyed her staff. As she sent a sovereign rolling in his direction, his face reflected consideration. With a sigh, the man pulled a large key from the cabinet on the wall behind and placed it in front of the mage, deciding, likely, the money was worth the trouble.

“Third room on the right upstairs, breakfast is served when the sun is up. How long were you away?”

“A year,” the man’s eyebrows shot up, and she continued. “I was studying under a Senior Enchanter in Ostwick. You may keep it brief.”

He scoffed in response but seemed content with the explanation. The lodging was quiet on the edge of daylight, so he tried to keep his gruff voice down.

“You missed the hole in the sky then, I take it?”

She straightened, shoulders dropping. That was new.

“I see,” the man drew a weary breath. “You must know of the mage-templar war."

Solona nodded.

"Most Holy called upon the mages and the templars to talk and reach a compromise or at least something… It all, of course, went bad. There was an explosion that I still don’t understand, and- Divine Justinia died… instead of peace – the whole sky was torn apart. Demons! Demons poured out. Rumour has it, some Chantry folk restored the Inquisition of old to fix it. Maker knows, I’m a devout man, but this just makes you think, you know?”

Tight like a string, she fought the urge to storm out and simply steal a horse. _A hole in the sky? Demons? In Ferelden?_

“How bad is it?”

“It’s oddly alright, I suppose,” he shrugged and, if remembering something, threw a look to his left. Dazed, she followed his gaze and saw warm steam escaping the patchy door. ”You’d think after the all the darkspawn a man can catch a breath, but- This Inquisition is awfully good at keeping the demon business tame, I give them that. It’s mostly dangerous to travel alone and off the busy routes. Whole caravans go missing.”

Solona pulled her hands into fists, pushing them into the smooth surface. The leather of her gloves creaked.

“This Inquisition… Is it Orlesian?” as the question escaped, she realized how awfully odd it sounded. The man, Fereldan through and through, saw no fault in it.

“I wouldn’t know. They recruit a lot from our people though.”

She needed to ask somehow. Needed to-

“Maker’s breath, what is the Crown doing? Surely there must be a directive by now!”

“Dealing with the refugees? Blasted if I know,” he shrugged. “If you need to travel, I suggest you speak to Landon at the market, it’s right off the chantry. He has a company that guards caravans. Real brutes, if you ask me, but they’re still afoot.”

Solona nodded, dizziness jumping her like a predator its prey. “Never a dull moment,” she forced a sour smile.

“Isn’t that true.”

After the grim recount, she found herself restless, measuring her room in wide steps. A better source was needed, of course. A hole in the sky? The only magic capable of doing so was said to have breached the gates of the Golden City. Likely a big tear in the Veil that grew larger each time it was described by one villager to another. Still, what kind of power-

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Solona dropped on the bed. Her fireplace had been hastily started, but chill was still prevailing in the confines of the inn room. Her belongings were lumped in a corner.

She hesitated to put on her warden armour: it granted her authority, true, and with a show of a badge some might even believe she was the Warden-Commander, but her gut feeling told her to stick to road leathers until she reached Vigil’s keep. They were less comfortable, not as good a protection, particularly with demons around, but made her plain and forgettable.

With anxiety cracking through her limbs like a poorly executed spell, she placed glyphs inside her room and went downstairs to eat and order a bath for later. The breakfast, a huge improvement over the meals from the past few days, brought her no joy, resting at the bottom of her stomach to fill the emptiness.

Horses were in high demand, she came to learn, as it was a rare traveller who wanted to cross the land on foot when even the most boring bush could hide danger. As luck had it, she managed to purchase a steed without scraping the bottom of her coin purse: tall and muscular, it had a distinctive white stripe running down the front of its face and was said to respond to the name Valiant. She let the animal nuzzle her hand and ran the fingers of another through its mane. As if sensing her agitation, it took a while for the horse to take in her presence.

When Solona returned to the inn, the stone bath was ready, and she plunged in, water steaming and pleasant against her skin. Sitting on a dressing table across from her was a mirror, and, twisting, she could see a part of her reflection in it. Dark circles lay under her eyes, hair a mess of knots even when damp. Perhaps a few hours of sleep, she decided, and she would depart for Soldier’s Peak.

She had instructed her troops that for the length of her search they were to send the correspondence there, a remote and secluded keep that she could visit discreetly. Maybe something Avernus had to say on her findings, or a report from Nathaniel sitting in a cache there would bring clarity to her erratic thoughts.

\---

Time and time again Leliana had shown restraint in the face of diversity, all while confused, angry, or distressed. Her temper, cold and controlling, was a fable among the Inquisition’s recruits. Entirely different thing was to see her annoyed, mouth twisted in a snarl and hands folded behind her back. Empty-handed, she rarely ever wrote anything down during their meetings.

“I do, in fact, think we should press this on,” Inquisitor - and it was still new to think of him that way - retorted, nursing his wounded forearm. When he seemed satisfied with the way bandages sat around the cut, he continued. “Don’t we have a larger reach now?”

“Yes, and a larger responsibility at that. We have searched before, as you know,” Leliana explained, and Cullen was sure she had that answer trained to perfection. “And we have even less time now.”

“Well, they didn’t listen when Warden Stroud cautioned them, so what exactly should I do? Do I wave at them until they notice my hand is magic and grow curious? Are you”, Trevelyan stressed the word, “willing to fight them? I would rather not.”

The man let out a huff and settled his arms across his chest more as a statement: his wound left little room for fidgety gestures. He twitched as the Mark flickered its bright green light.

Cullen couldn’t help but agree, feeling odd kinship for the Inquisitor’s urgency. Grey wardens, legendary warriors on their own right, were no strangers to blood magic and would host the fight on a remote, likely open area. In a direct attack the cost of a failure, the cost of a poorly executed _successful_ plan even, was immense. If there was a slightest chance to talk the wardens down from the wretched idea, Cullen was willing to at least consider it.

“I understand your concern, Inquisitor,” Josephine nodded at the man with a delicate smile. Her smiles were always that – just polite enough. Sarcastic only when permissible. Frisky when necessary. She was truly born for her job. “But dedicating further resources to this search would be overextending ourselves. I can lend Leliana a hand if you’d like, but those are favours we will not get to use anymore.” 

“And what if she is with Clarel? Then-”

“Then she would have stopped this already,” Leliana turned the idea down with steel in her voice.

The Inquisitor, slouching against the desk, fixed his head to look at the scenery outside the keep. Cullen couldn't stop himself from stealing a look as well. Light snow was falling, promptly whisked away by the chill wind.

“Cullen?” he inquired after a sigh, still not facing them.

In truth, Cullen was just as convinced by Josephine as he was by Trevelyan: Cassandra made it well known that she had exhausted every option until they had no choice but to proceed without an Inquisitor – at least at the time of the Conclave. Making Leliana divert her scouts, having Josephine invoke favours, all in a bet that not only would they find the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, but that they would find her in time. Still, he couldn’t deny, not to himself, he was at least a bit curious. He had considered asking Leliana, a number of times, in fact, but when it came down to getting even a single question out, his nerve was always missing. What would he ask without looking like a fool?

“I would prefer there to be no direct confrontation, Inquisitor.”

Cullen felt blood pump in his temples with distinct clarity. It was distracting, and he should have offered more than just a wish, an estimate perhaps, but the throbbing turned into pain and grew stronger, yanking at his nerves. He pulled through the pause with his eyes squinted.

“Do it then,” Trevelyan shook his head and turned to look straight at Leliana, resolute under her heavy glare. “At least we’ll know we tried.”  

To the surprise of everyone in the room, the Spymaster nodded.

Eventually the Inquisitor left for the Western Approach, where he was to meet up with Warden Stroud and the Champion of Kirkwall. Having Hawke in Skyhold opened a whole new box of nugs: after a loud scuffle Cassandra refused to as much as breathe the same air with Varric, and, quite reluctantly, Trevelyan had to leave her behind.

Cullen never got the chance to talk to Hawke, and he wasn’t sure he needed to. When they did, it was a cautious tiptoeing around the fact that she was an apostate-in-hiding and he a tired man too busy to dig for proof. Later she became an esteemed figure, and he stopped bothering altogether.

Few weeks into Inquisitor’s absence, a messenger found Cullen, stating that Lady Montilyet had urgent news to convey and was to meet them in the war room. Cullen tore his eyes off the message he was putting together for the scout crew in the Dales, threw a short, guilty look at the letter addressed to him that sat in the corner of his desk – Mia - and walked out of his office.

The other advisors were waiting already.

“Commander,” Josephine nodded, “we were just discussing a recent development in Orlais. It seems like the Empress Celine has decided to arrange for negotiations with her cousin, but-”

“But we have been approached by the Grand Duke instead,” Leliana completed. “He has extended an invitation, to the Inquisitor in the first place, but to us as well. Quite an opportunity.”

Cullen rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Is this one of his ploys? Why can’t we approach the Empress directly if it’s her life that is at risk?”

“Commander is a stranger to the delicate ways of Orlesian politics,” Josephine noted, and the women joyously shared a laugh at his expense. He didn't mind, never particularly secretive about his dislike of intrigue. 

“We will bring this to the Inquisitor’s attention when he arrives, at the moment we can do little else about it. There is another piece of news,” with a small nod, Leliana diverted his attention to Josephine.

“Ah yes,” the Ambassador went through her notes and pulled out a thin scroll. “From the way poor Lady Richomme described it, some Tevinter artefact was involved, and she despises the idea of even looking at the- Apologies. We _seem_ to have found a way to reach the Hero of Ferelden.”

His heart picked the pace, and he stared straight at the Ambassador. She brushed a hand over the folded sheet but didn’t look down. “It is not the most solid lead, but we may hear from Warden-Commander soon enough. There are reports of her passing through Nevarra on the Imperial Highway.”

He had to expect as much, a faint clue, a brief note perhaps; but his gaze dropped and his left arm stung. At the very least, he mused, she was still alive.

“Where does that leave us?” he managed finally, throwing back his head, eyes closed. The tight knot in his neck started to disappear.

“Hopeful that the Inquisitor handles the wardens with utmost finesse,” Josephine responded, true to her style.

Cullen nodded, a grunt almost escaping him.

They ran through the latest news of Gaspard’s advances, persistent despite his agreement to speak to the Empress, and soon he found himself alone in the council room: Josephine excused herself, and the Spymaster lingered to ask after him. After he dismissed her concerns Leliana disappeared.

The war table was weighed down with clutter: he eyed the growing pile of tomes suggested for the Inquisitor’s reading by various parties. The map remained mostly clear of the disarray, and it required some meddling to bring it to date. Cullen moved the portion of the marks, symbols for their forces in the Hinterlands, conveniently faceless, closer to Redcliffe – knocking the figurines down in the process. He froze, measuring every breath, and discovered his hands were shaking.

Nights after that were mostly sleepless. The shivers got worse, and the promise of a dread kept him from closing his eyes. Rather than fight a hopeless war on his nightmares, he went through the numerous letters with his head resting heavily on the bent arm, lighting up a candle after a candle. Somewhere in those dark hours he signed the appointment of Knight Captain Rylen as his second-in-command.

Exhaustion was, for once, helpful, as the most sleep Cullen got was in his chair, a task half-finished on his desk. It wasn’t sufficient, but it soothed the coarse feeling of sand in his eyes. Few times he even managed to drag himself to a bed – an old broken carcass in a tower nearby - and all without a memory of how that came to be. That was no look to parade in front of his troops, however.

Cassandra noticed, ever observant, and he quite confidently suspected the fresh water and fruit in his room every morning were her doing. She didn’t smother Cullen with lectures, and the time she invited him to have a walk outside Skyhold they spent in complete and utter silence.

Inevitably his mind drifted onto the subject of Samson, the hazy resemblance of their fates never once escaping his notice. He’d tasked the Inquisitor with tracking the red lyrium shipments in hopes of eventually locating the man, but, if he allowed himself honesty, the only question on his mind was _why_. Despite once sharing quarters they had never indulged in a lengthy conversation, and what he could make of Samson was stemming from the man’s deeds alone. Having lived through the lyrium madness, he was leading the templars down the slope that was turning them into outright monsters in the face of entire Thedas. That- No one deserved what Samson was unleashing on them.

In time sleep returned, and he got to enjoy the comfort of his bed. His bones ached, but once again his hands were steady and eyes clear.

Shortly after, a bird carried news of the Inquisitor’s arrival. With little hesitation, he asked the message to be relayed to Cassandra as well.

In a hasty attempt to assign priorities, Cullen went through his notes. The accounts from the keep of Caer Bronach in Crestwood were satisfactory: initial restoration works were nearly finished and the supply chain between the outposts settled in. The villagers were eager to see the keep up and running again, just as eager to go easy on the prices as the favour to the Inquisitor. Before the request came in, Cullen began laying out the expansion of patrol routes through rotation of the Storm Coast troops, preparing to push the bulk of the forces further towards the west. It was no measly task, so he was glad when Leliana wordlessly assisted with the organization.

His eyes narrowed as he regarded the time. In a few brisk movements he finished a tea that had long gone cold and grabbed the map of the Western Approach, dark with his marks.  Rubbing his neck with a free hand, he waited until the whirling sensation died down and made the strides towards the war room. In his letter, Trevelyan had only asked for a brief pause to wash his face and eat before starting the council, and Cullen was sure that time was up.

He heard voices, not the quiet gentle tones Leliana and Josephine reserved for one another, but firm and unflinching, coming out from the room as he pulled the heavy door.

The Spymaster was the only one not to perk her head at his entrance, and he greeted the other advisors, Cassandra and the Inquisitor with a nod.

“We must move out the troops now, Commander. Stop them,” Trevelyan urged, leaning heavily on the large desk at the centre of the room. He threw a scornful look down at the map, laden with small banners like a pincushion. “From the way it sounded, Clarel is not done recalling her forces yet, but it could be any day now.”

His head made a wild spin.

“Now? We won’t be able to reach the Western Approach so quickly!”

“You’ll have to figure something out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me, actively smearing the clear black and white of the game choice on Cullen taking lyrium.


	4. Here lies the Abyss

The barren road underneath Valiant’s hooves was loud in the tense silence of the falling dusk. The bloody orange of the setting sun still bled into the lilac of the sky, fringing on the outlines of the Frostback mountains. The Imperial Highway was steady and hadn’t seen much fighting, but an occasional patch was overcome with tenacious stretches of grass.

Frost lashed against her exposed skin with its sharp claws as she made her way along the curved shape of Lake Calenhad, leaving the approach to the small village of Haven behind.

Solona’s memories of the place were less than pleasant: blood smears on the cold stone, lifeless silence amongst the abandoned huts, stillness of the waters at the wreck of a pier. The place had been rediscovered by the general public following their steps: naturally human curiosity drew in many, the pious in particular. Eventually, the village had regained a semblance of life, but she did not expect to discover the area completely buried under dense snow.

As peevish as she was about the idea of returning there, there was little choice. In the depths of the saddle bags, along with the rations, dried herbs, the refilled coin pouch and a neatly stacked bundle of lyrium potions, was a short letter she had read several times until it sounded believable.

_“Dearest Solona,_

_There is someone you_ must _meet. Find me in Haven, and I pray the Maker I live to see you once more._

_Yours,_

_L.”_

Her arrival to the Soldier’s Peak had only caused more unrest. She had arrived tired and anxious to find the keep standing in its sombre defiance. The inside was dead with silence, and the late hour placed Avernus in his quarters. The furniture stood collecting dust as if the place existed out of Thedas and out of time itself. Solona wandered to the laboratory, not bothering to conceal her presence, and casually went through the mage’s notes.

Avernus wasn’t sparing any words as he went to describe the absence of supplies from Vigil’s keep, his lines thick and angles sharp. Where the man was angered by the lack of progress in his research, Solona had her heart beating faster in the growing worry. The correspondence cache was clean of rust and properly maintained, giving in without a sound. Amongst the unnecessarily long pieces from the Fereldan nobles and buried under the heavy volume of warden paperwork, she found a few notes of personal nature.

She jumped straight onto the weighty envelopes signed by Nathaniel: her second-in-command was nothing but diligent. He told her of their routine ventures into the Deep Roads and the discovered entries that were promptly collapsed; of the rise and fall of a bandit gang that had plagued the merchant routes for only one short month; of the precious few new recruits, five of which had survived the Joining; of the brevity in the messages from Weisshaupt. He was meticulous in describing the inventory and brief in the one mention of Anders that he couldn’t avoid. When she laid them out in order, her anxiety gained form: his reports had come to an abrupt end three months prior to her arrival. 

Solona went through the modest pile from the keep personnel. An extensive payment statement accompanied by a note delving into the state of the armoury. Tax rundowns. Birth records. One letter from the seneschal drew her in with its concise urgency: the wardens had all vanished without telling him why. Solona raked through for a follow-up. Two months, and they hadn’t returned, he said. She jumped to her feet, made a few rounds in the tight space of the room and eventually settled in a corner to reread Nathaniel’s reports.

Avernus found her in the morning, arranging journals on the clear space of his desk. He repeated his displeasure about the lack of resource, but she diverted his zeal onto her findings. They spoke until evening when she could no longer keep her eyes open.

He knew nothing of her wardens, dismissive about the scouts delivering her correspondence, but got more agreeable when she offered to replenish the blood supplies with hers. She knew he wasn’t kind to his subjects, but wasn’t ready to stumble on weak limbs through the twisted halls of the keep. In that dazed state she opened the private letters.

Oghren was eager to share the details of his grizzly battles on Alphas, finding new moves to detach the ‘horny heads’ from their ‘twitching bodies’, but even more eager to tell about his kid’s first hunt on the outskirts of Brecilian forest. Velanna was short when she described her success in teaching the Keeper magic to a small flock of apostate children in Amaranthine. Sigrun provided a list of her most recent recommendations for adventure books with a heart-warming promise of a big feast upon Solona’s return.

One envelope didn’t need a royal seal for her to know who it was from. Addressed to _Solona_ , not Warden-Commander of Ferelden, it still had been delivered – besides, she knew his handwriting all too well. She hesitated to open it at first, dull ache tugging at her chest, and flipped the letter from side to side, placing the paper against the faint light of a dirty window. Allowing herself a deep sigh, she opened it.

The words were hectic, informal, _serious_ , he likely came to regret it afterwards. It was his search too, he stated, and that Calling was never something she’d need to tackle alone. He warned her of people searching for her phylactery, assuring it was safe. Mentioned, with tangible exasperation, that the inquiry on his parentage was still unresolved. That he was eager to see her return.

Next, was a note from Leliana.

Under the strict insistence of Avernus, she remained in the keep for three more days. He sneaked in a lot of questions about her drawings, copied off the painted walls in the ruins at the Green Dales, proposed her to bring a sample of actual dragon blood.  

She rode for Vigil’s Keep next, but with a heavy heart discovered no further development on the location of her troops. The seneschal wanted to throw a feast to celebrate, something to take the men’s mind off demons, likely, but she rejected the proposal, probing him for the news instead. He knew little on the Inquisition, only hearsay and that some lads in Amaranthine had run off to join. She had pleaded for the man to bear with her absence a little longer, and after refilling the supplies had taken Valiant to find Leliana.

A secluded inn on the shore of Lake Calenhad provided a fire, a warm bed and a story of an avalanche burying Haven. Solona slept poorly that night, clutching the sheets as pain pressed into the back of her head. Her thoughts kept coming back to the grave silence of the mountains.

In the purple light of dawn, she slipped outside to check on Valiant in the stables far in the back of the inn: the horse had barely eaten and was in dire need of grooming. She returned to her room just before sunrise, fingers aching in the cold, and eyed the disarray of her belongings scattered across the furniture.

“Maker has an odd sense of humour.”

A spell, crust of ice tracing the shape of her hand, excruciating, died as fast as it had sprung to life. Solona turned to the sound of a familiar voice only to have her face pressed into an odd mess of fabric and hair. A shoulder, she realized, as a set of arms circled around her back.

“Leliana?” she murmured, her chest rising heavily. She recognized the scent, sweet and flowery with a bitter undertone, and placed shaky hands on the bard’s back. Shivers spread through her spine as it tingled with relief. “I almost-“

“Believed me dead? That easily?” Leliana let out a short laugh and pulled away. “Your hair looks _terrible_!”

Solona chuckled, her head felt light and airy. “If I weren’t so glad to see you, I’d take offense, Sister Nightingale.”

“Maker, it is good to see you,” the bard spoke softly.

“You can’t even imagine-” but words failed her. It was entirely possible _she could imagine_. “You too.”

Holding Leliana’s hands, Solona took time to study her face. No doubt a reflection of her own: feisty spark in the eyes, adorned by a new set of wrinkles, serene and soothing smile. It took Leliana breaking their contact to pull a bottle of wine from her bag to be reminded of the other troubles. She felt her smile fade.

“Wine?” Solona tilted her head, eyes following the sleek movements of her friend. “At this hour?”

“It is not every day we meet like this,” Leliana threw her a brief glance. “I didn’t pay a hefty coin for you to turn me down now.”

Taken by surprise, Solona snorted with laughter.

“I’ll start then,” Leliana poured herself a glass, stained for the lack of upkeep, and another one that she handed to Solona. “You must have heard of the mage-templar war by now, yes?”

Leliana, as Solona quickly learned, was serving as a spymaster of the newly founded Inquisition, and much to the bard’s dismay, she wordlessly toasted to that.

The explosion at the Conclave had left a survivor, Maxwell Trevelyan of the Free Marches, and granted him a magical mark capable of sealing the rifts in the Veil and a title of the Herald of Andraste. Eventually, the man had grown into the title of Inquisitor. In the formal recital of the events, Leliana admitted that re-establishing the organization was not an impulsive decision.

“Most Holy meant for it to resolve the conflict when the Circles fell, bring peace,” the bard looked pensive, eyes focused on the space in front of her. She took a short sip to break the trance. “They were looking for you to lead it.”

Solona brought both hands to her glass and lowered into a chair. “Me? But I’m a-”

“A mage, leading the armies of the faithful,” Leliana acknowledged with a light shake of her head. “No one cared what that’d do to you, of course. But you had already left by then, so I needn’t bother.”

Her phylactery, Solona recalled with a sharp twinge in her chest.

“So what is the situation now? Did you figure out this… this mark?”

They hadn’t, and the rest of the story proved no less alarming: a creature that claimed to have breached the Golden City, with a following of a Tevinter cult and aspirations to godhood. Corypheus. The name caused faint recollection.

“There has been a recent development,” Leliana spoke reluctantly, “with the Orlesian Wardens in Adamant. We believe them to be tricked into binding themselves to Corypheus. The Inquisitor is out to deal with it as we speak, and before you say anything, it is best we reserve judgement until he’s back.”

“Only Orlesian? Did you speak to Warden-Commander Clarel?”

“Contact was… difficult,” a shade of sorrow crossed Leliana’s features as Solona stared at her with bated breath. “Inquisitor requested I search for you to assist with this. Back then I thought it futile, but wanted to set his mind at ease.”

Not entirely senseless, the man’s idea. Even though the rest of the Order was cautious about Solona, they still regarded her one of their own. She had exchanged information with Clarel before, and the other mage was nothing but cooperative.

“I was about to toss this on the Inquisitor’s table,” she handed a small envelope, a griffon etched into a red seal. Solona jerked to rummage through her bags, but the realization dawned before she made herself look like a fuss. “You may read it, of course.”

She exhaled, steadying herself: subduing the primal spell to a low burn was an intricate affair. She cast a small fire in slow, circular motions against the seal, and pulled out the folded sheet. Within the first few lines she could tell with firm certainty the craftsmanship was stellar: the letters had sharp edges to them and the words laid far apart, all in remarkable resemblance to her handwriting. It was a fine forgery in every aspect.

“You put my letters to good use, I see,” she remarked in a dull voice, but a snort had given her away already. Leliana shrugged in response and took a sip of wine, a smirk obvious across her lips.

The rest of the message, however, left her in worse spirits.

“ _I know less of ancient darkspawn lore than do most wardens_?” she contained the disdain in her voice as she read the sentence out loud, but only barely. Leliana, she guessed, saw right through that. “It has been almost ten years!”

“Would you rather have me invent a lie?” the bard parried with a raised eyebrow. Without her hood, Leliana looked eerily similar to her old blithe self, but the sharp shadows under her eyes gave away the morbid experiences of the past, both shared and private pains.

“I look quite incompetent in this,” the warden regarded and turned away from the light to rest her elbow on the chair arm. “but even if I’d prefer not to, I see the merit of disclosing the nature of my search.”

Even if it was incidental, the bard was the one who had helped Solona better herself in lying.

“Then we’re lucky it didn’t come to this. Now,” before Solona could provide further critique, Leliana chased the conversation away from the subject of her letter, “how were your journeys?”

The mage placed both hands in her lap and crossed the fingers. The wine was getting to her head, nudging the thoughts from the tips of her tongue as she picked the thread to lead with. None sounded particularly appealing.

“More questions than answers, I’m afraid,” she admitted with mild strain. “What you said about Clarel… it puts a twist on not knowing where Nathaniel and the rest of my forces are.”

“They are missing? We figured they merely refused association.”

“It is worse than that,” Solona shook her head. “But I am anxious to learn what transpires in Adamant.”

“As am I,” Leliana offered tenderly. The bard downed her wine and leaned against the flimsy desk. “What of the Calling?”

“It was trying. Not every place in Thedas recognizes my authority to openly practice magic,” they both scoffed. “I have people working on my findings, although with how short-handed I am now, it will be long before anything comes up.”

 _A person, really_ , she thought to herself but refused to look downcast about it. A spark flickered in Leliana’s eyes.

“I think you should approach the Inquisitor about that,” the bard suggested with ease as if the idea wasn’t hanging in the air unspoken already. “I could spare a handful of researchers, but even I can keep this in the dark only so long. You can get more support if you do it openly. Besides, you will end up inserting yourself in this anyway.”

Solona couldn’t help but smirk. What they both understood in mute agreement was that if she had any hope of finding her people, she needed favours.

In truth, even as she couldn’t shrug the discomfort at the idea of involving herself with Chantry agents, the thought of not helping when she clearly could was outright repugnant. If the timing was any indication, the situation with the Orlesian Wardens gave her a leeway under the scrutiny of Weisshaupt.

There were other matters, too.

“Leliana…”

“Hm?” hearing the gentle song-like hum come from the bard stole the words from the tip of Solona’s tongue. The tiniest reminder of the past days clutched at her chest. Homesickness, she realized.

“I am… sorry I wasn’t there for you,” Solona laid out quietly, but a simple apology was hardly grasping the extent of her regret. Leliana had been with her through everything: crawled through the same caves, breathed in the same smothering poisons, dodged the same arrows - and braided her hair even when the rest of their clothing was all smeared with blood and dirt, telling her of the grand halls, vast gardens and ridiculous wigs dominating the scenery in Orlais. “When Justinia passed-”

Leliana shook her head, unflinching, and wrapped her arms around her chest.

“I only recently found out,” Solona confessed, stealing a glance at her companion's face. That was hardly an excuse. “You’ve kept busy, yes, but I know a broken heart when I see one.”

“There is time for mourning when we deal with Corypheus and his army,” Leliana nudged her to her feet. “In the meantime, I will take solace in working with a dear friend of mine, won’t I?”

The mage nodded, thoughts reaching out to the lone horse in the stables. Cure or no cure, she was done feeling apprehensive.

\---

Cullen straightened in the saddle and reached to pull out the water flask. It made a pleasant, barely distinguishable splashing sound as he gulped greedily. Around him, metal was the loudest, high-pitched screeching at a careless step or a wheel jumping a stone. Talking was highly discouraged as it sapped the soldiers’ strength with deceptive comfort.

They had entered the most treacherous leg of their march: through the sandy plains of the Western Approach, where the golden yellow was the only thing to see for miles on end sometimes. His own reserve was almost at its limit, with eyes full of sand, throat coarse and sweat clinging to the skin of his aching back. The nightfall was most gentle, cold breeze made him more agreeable and prone to a conversation. Cullen managed to sneak in hours of sleep, which was the easiest with his face still wet from thorough rinsing. On their second day in Rylen caught up, accompanied by a wing of his troops. They brought in water and a different outlook on living in the barren wilds. 

Cullen kept the headcount with the vague precision his memory allowed: the main bulk of their forces was bolstered by a dozen of mages from Montsimmard Vivienne had requested and three squads of soldiers picked up at Val Firmin, courtesy of Josephine’s diplomacy. Siege weaponry dragged behind, blurred silhouettes in the distance, closing their lines. The wardens would have to be blind not to see them amass the forces at the approach to the keep, but then again, he saw the whole plan insane from start to finish.

His hands were firm on the reins, but the strain sprouted more and more through his back with each passing mile. He’d dealt with few cases of dehydration, slapping himself awake to deliver reprimands on the importance of careful water rationing in a firm tone.

On the fourth day his spine was too weak to support the weight of his head. He remembered a particularly warm day on the summer of his first year in Kinnloch Hold: he was three months into his service, aware of every second he spent motionless under the metal of his armour. Mages were practicing primal magics, frost and snow mounds in the corners, but the chill was hardly sufficient to battle the smothering heat. At the end of his shift in the library Beval and Gordon invited him for a stroll at the lake – with Knight-Commander’s permission, of course – and he couldn’t agree quickly enough. They teased him relentlessly, for the way he conversed with the mages, for the way he laughed at their jokes; shared the mishaps of the practice sessions, Jowan’s name coming up once or twice. They were his brothers-in-arms, until they were just that – broken bodies, claw marks etched into the steel, mouths crooked, bones of soft white crushed into the flesh like pearls embellishing a fine dress, blood and skin under broken fingernails, and screams, pleading, frenzied…     

A sharp jab on his foot yanked him awake.  

“I don’t imagine you’re used to this warmth, holed up in your mountains, Commander,” Rylen pulled at the reigns to level his ride. He was squinting in the sunlight, but managed a smile wide enough to show the white of his teeth.

Cullen rubbed at his eyes vigorously. He was heaving but not thirsty.

“No,” he responded shortly. His limbs were cramping, feet tucked in stirrups for too long. He cleared the sore throat. “Everything in order, Knight-Captain?”

“Right as day,” Rylen adjusted the visor of his helmet. “I’ve sent my people mingling with the troops. A wet cloth put in a right spot works wonders in a desert. Boosts the morale, I think.”

“Good call,” Cullen surveyed the scenery with a long look over his shoulder. Sweat was quick to roll into his eyes. “We should be at the meeting point soon, then we can settle in for the night.”

His second nodded, no doubt fully aware of their position. Rylen was polite enough not to point that out.

“How is your appointment treating you?” Cullen asked so that he’d be the one to listen instead. His head was bursting, preying on his sight, and heat had stripped him of patience.

“Can’t say the attention of Orlesian nobility has been a blessing, Commander, but we can manage,” Rylen admitted. As busy as he was with bringing the Griffon Wing keep to order, the man had readily taken over the rotations of their amassing Orlesian forces. “They find it hard to reach me here, or so I hear from Lady Ambassador. I will make myself more approachable as soon as we have a stable water supply, of course.”

“Tell me about it,” Cullen scoffed, the gentle rocking of the horse falling into his rugged breaths.

“I’ll go see what my scouts have to report. Take care, Commander!” Rylen saluted and rode away to join up with his men, leaving a sand cloud in his wake.

It was a mix of figures and shapes rolling out in front of him next, right until the sun started to disappear into the horizon. Cullen emptied his flask onto his face, water dripping off his chin wastefully, and that breathed some life into him. On horseback, he hoarded the troops into a plateau conveniently shielded by a rock formation in the west. The terrain was tricky, and he had to yell the commands around, saliva thick in his mouth, and with each sound the black brim around his vision grew, sucking the air out of his lungs until his world converged in a single dot.  

Next thing he knew were the remote sounds of a commotion: metal rattling and voices crumbling one on top of the other. Cullen squirmed. He was on his back, a fold of hard fabric supporting his neck.

“Easy now.”

Faint light seeped through his eyelids; he thought it safe so he attempted to lift them. What was supposed to be his tent had already been set up: a makeshift bed he was occupying, a chest with maps and his plans, a foldable desk and a lamp in the corner. Trevelyan sat across from him on a crate, cross-legged, eyes trained on Cullen.

“Andraste preserve me,” he managed, his own voice foreign and gruff, ”how long was I out?”

Inquisitor walked up to him, offering a flask instead. Cullen pushed himself up on his elbows with odd verve and gratefully washed down the bitter taste in his mouth. _Maker, was it vomit?_

“Anything you wish to share, Commander?” Trevelyan asked, tone neutral and unwavering. Cullen preferred to know the man’s mind, but even more than that he preferred the ringing in his ears went away.

“What did you tell the troops?” he’d made quite a display, no doubt.

“Dehydration,” was the prompt reply, and Cullen groaned. For all his efforts to instil good habits in his men, they got toppled by one offhand excuse. “You should be happy, Dorian suggested upset stomach.”

Overcoming numbness, he pulled up his knees and shifted into a sitting position. The upper layer of his gear was off and the drenched undershirt provided freedom to move. “I stopped taking lyrium.”

He knew he’d have to explain little, if anything at all: Trevelyan had served the Chantry for many years, sworn to the duty as other members of his house. One didn’t need to be a templar to know what that meant.

“And this is what it does to you?” Trevelyan’s voice betrayed distress. “Isn’t it gravely dangerous?”

“I could no longer-” Cullen uttered, head in the tight grasp of the growing pains, “not after Kirkwall.”

“How could y- No. No, I understand but…” Inquisitor sighed wearily and brought a hand to ruffle through his hair. It was damp with sweat, something Cullen could relate to even in his weakness. “You- you shouldered this responsibility while fully aware that you may not be up to the task! Isn’t that right, Commander?”

Much as he hated to admit, leading the Inquisition’s forces was one of the many things that had just happened to him, and at the time he’d set his mind onto abstaining, Cassandra had made him an offer to _do_ something rather than sit idly and merely react. How could he ever say no?

“This is hardly what I would rather be doing right now, Cullen,” Trevelyan appealed, voice dull with exasperation. The heat was getting to everyone one way or another. “Yet I go out every day risking my neck, and so does every other soldier under your command. We have a battle _at dawn_ , one we may not even walk away from, - but we still try because we trust each other to do our jobs, we all trust in _you_ to be at your finest. Do you truly think yourself so above making a mistake that you can afford to impair our chances?”

He didn’t think of it like that, _never like that_. Maker, had he made mistakes, paid for them in blood and sweat, and the headcount that was nothing but his fault. He was never going to forget about those, never believed it surmountable to make up for everything either. But at least he wanted to try. At least he wanted to do so while remaining himself.

Cullen found himself curled, elbows pressed firmly into his knees, hands clutching the sides of his head. He hadn’t been listening.

“It wasn’t like this,” he protested weakly. “I asked Cassandra to interfere if she ever saw me slip”

“I see,“ Trevelyan mused, arms crossed on his chest. Cullen didn’t want to disturb the silence which followed. “And what was she to do?”

“Recommend a replacement,” he replied blankly. The overwhelming rumble reaching through the heavy folds of the tent did nothing to reassure him that idea was conceivable. In the corner of his vision he noticed movement: Trevelyan was shaking his head.   

“Or you could stay and keep performing your duties, something you’re distinctly good at,” Inquisitor sounded sincere, Cullen wanted him to be sincere, “so that we stand a chance in stopping Corypheus.”

“And I’d keep taking it.”  

He looked up, felt twitching in his left hand. No more sleepless nights. No more pains crippling his joints. No more sudden tremors making him stain his letters with ink.

“You know very well, as do I, it is not about what we want.”

“It is about what needs to be done,” Cullen muttered.

“I’m not- You can go off lyrium when we are triumphant, and I _know_ we will be. But until then… we all sacrifice what we must,” Trevelyan clutched the leather clad hand where the mark was wreathing through his flesh. “Do we have an understanding?”

“It will not be a problem anymore, Inquisitor,” his chest fell hollow with resignation.


	5. Another side, another story

Solona breathed out a soft cloud of air, and it swiftly vanished in the frosty chill of the mountains. Those were the mundane magics, no less fascinating at that, and in the light of her recent discoveries, they were the only kind she was comfortable thinking about.

Red lyrium, red templars. Corypheus. The Anchor.

Adamant.

Leliana wanted to be tactful about that, but there was a limit to how long Solona allowed the dismissal of her inquiries to fly.

It was the Calling, they believed. The massive reach of the Song, drawing the end line of their lives. The familiar fear of their bodies breaking down and giving at the last stand in the Deep Roads, she could understand. The implications of it happening to all of them? Solona couldn’t be surprised about the blood magic, not after Soldier’s Peak.

She managed to place the nagging hum that was disturbing her quiet moments, at least.

Leliana had offered a place in one of the snug rooms of the fortress. Being her guest was the most convenient thing to her anonymity: no one seemed to question people visiting the Spymaster. The room was cold and had a crack in one of the walls, large enough so she could fit her arm through. But it had a roof and a sense of safety, and given the persistent clacking of the tools, wasn’t the worst option.

She was comfortable with the people not knowing – and not really bothering to know – her. Somehow Skyhold held a tavern on its grounds, and the steady flow of ale prompted a series of inflated stories about the Inquisitor out of its visitors whenever they saw a new face. She didn’t mind. They sounded sincere in their admiration.

Other times she buried herself in getting to learn the workings of the Inquisition. Leliana had given her access to the essential reports and maps, common knowledge mostly, which was clearly a lot less than the inner circle knew.

“You’d be just as angry if I let someone ruffle through your records without permission,” the Spymaster answered on one of her visits, eyes locked onto her hand of Wicked Grace. She came to insist they played every evening. “It’s a matter of his trust.”

“I can’t imagine you asking a permission to do anything,” Solona flipped a card from the top of the deck, “but have it your way.”

Reluctant to agree at first, Solona had found their games oddly relaxing, even if her wins were remarkably scarce, and Leliana wouldn’t play for anything less than the real coin. The fortress bustling with life, a trusty friend within an arm’s reach, and a hot meal any time of day – made it almost feel like home.

“What a lovely image you have of me, dear friend,” Leliana chuckled, turning serious as she acquired a new card.

Solona could almost lean back and close her eyes, allowing herself to get carried away by slumber: the game never truly excited her, no matter the stakes.

But her funds were not limitless.

“So that person you said I should meet,” she reminded, “they did not fall victim to Corypheus in Haven, did they?”

Leliana looked up.

“I can’t believe I forgot,” the woman straightened in her seat with a grace of a cat, yet looked stern. Solona chuckled.

“This is hardly-”

“She is here,” the Spymaster pulled at the deck. “A former Grey Warden, or so she claims.”

Solona placed the cards into her lap face down. “Former? Exactly how is she former?”

“I was sure you would ask exactly that,” Leliana shook her head. “Sadly, in all this time I haven’t been able to make her talk. All she would say is that she no longer bears the Taint, and that the wardens have expelled her from their ranks.”

Solona threw her head back, eyes squeezed shut. She let her breaths moderate the confusion, numb the sharp spike of excitement. Loud thuds in her ears died down under the resistance, and the mage opened her eyes. Leliana was studying her face, eyes soft. The bard’s presence was more comforting than ever.

She picked up her cards and settled deeper into the chair, avoiding Leliana’s questioning look.

“Oh. Dare I hope we can finish the game before you gallop out of the room?” the Spymaster prodded with a smile.

“We wouldn’t want me galloping around, pestering the good men and women of Skyhold, would we?” the smirk threatened to spread into an all-out grin. She drew another card. “You haven’t told me who she is yet.”

In due manner, Solona waited until afternoon for Leliana to arrange the precautions, necessary for their meeting to take place. Even if her night hours were often terrible and kept her wishing for a morning, mages had a reputation for sleeping late, and she wasn’t one to disappoint.

A note from Leliana, carried by a raven, told her where to go, a gentle reminder to burn the paper below the text.

“Grand Enchanter,” Solona hung her head in a courtesy nod, as she slid past the heavy wooden door.

“Warden-Commander, it is an honour to meet such an esteemed figure,” the woman had a light Orlesian accent, probably diluted along the miles of land every warden had to cover in their service. She wore mage robes comfortably, soft furs hugging her wrists.

“Likewise.”

Leliana had found them a remote room along the corridors that Solona hadn’t even seen before, traces of rubble were still plaguing the corners. No voice or a stray sound reached them that deep within the fortress, and the lights dancing on the stone walls twisted the shadows into sinister forms.

“Thank you for agreeing to our terms,” Solona stepped further into the room, eyeing the woman cautiously. “It’s a delicate matter.”

The elven woman smiled, wary eyes softening. “I know a little something about secrecy. You really can’t do well as a mage without.”

“Not in these fraught times, no…” Solona agreed, shedding a sliver of the tension. “I assume you know why I asked to speak with you.”

“It could be many things, Warden-Commander,” Fiona’s gaze dropped and she looked away briefly, careful to choose her pauses, “but if I were to guess I would say it is about my status as a warden. Or lack thereof.”

Solona nodded, itching to cross her arms. Too imposing, she reckoned.

“I’m afraid there is nothing I can say that would be of use to you,” Fiona shook her head, a short huff escaping her lips. “It happened a long time ago, and I do not know how that came to be. You are certainly not the first one to wonder. Other wardens tried to… research into my condition, you see, but they turned up empty-handed.”

Solona felt the pang of tension in her neck. She didn’t move, arms aimlessly at her sides.

“W- what did they try then?”

“What didn’t they try,” Fiona couldn’t help a scowl settling in her features. That was a look quite handy in dealings with the Chantry, Solona imagined. “They have scrutinized all my expeditions as a warden. Took my blood, to see what it would do to the Taint in isolation, no doubt. Questioned me… Where I counted myself lucky they really only saw a cause for distress.”

Fiona froze in reminiscence, eyes on the small space somewhere between them. Solona didn’t think to interrupt, and the other mage returned to attention when the silence grew too heavy with their mutual unease.

“It is not… my fondest memory,” she continued. ”The wardens have attempted the Joining on me, but that didn’t work either. After a time, they simply grew angry with me. Felt I have cheated them somehow.”

Solona hadn’t heard of it, of course. Not a record, not a rumour. Yet it fell in line somehow, fit perfectly with the way their order was. She couldn’t even get angry.

“I can imagine why.”

She knew it wasn’t all to it. She traced Fiona’s features with her eyes, pondering the cause that was keeping the woman’s lips sealed. It was all too easy to put herself in the Grand Enchanter’s shoes.

“I know the scorn of the First Warden first-hand, Grand Enchanter, even if it remains unstated. And my pursuits are aimed at the cure, not to oust you for merely wanting to live-”

Fiona frowned, instantly.

“I assure you, that came at no effort of my own!” words came biting, solid, and the woman made herself look taller with a mere tilt of her chin.

The question of blood magic died at the tip of her tongue, as Solona stowed it away under Fiona’s indignation. It was, however, unanswered.

“No offence was meant, Grand Enchanter,” she extended a veiled apology, feeling no need for one. But her spirits had sunk, and the mood needed a softer touch. Solona did not attempt to smile, only a light shake of her head. “I just… Even if you don’t know how it happened, would you consider telling me how you found out?”

She couldn’t get the frown off her face.

“It was gone… suddenly. That was really all to it,” the woman responded, folding her arms on her chest. “No more hearing darkspawn, no more of that hunger.”

Solona laughed, joined by Fiona in a heartbeat. That was an infamous thing, a legend among the wardens, all aching to describe the enormous portions of food they managed to stuff into their stomachs. The stories were hardly that, real stories, mostly mashed descriptions of various flavours, conveyed with the best of the narrators’ abilities. It had grown on her oddly quick.

“And it was a common day just before?” she asked, souring the mood.

The other woman pursed her lips, no trace of the softer expression she had just carried. The interlude had been lighthearted, but brief.

“Quite so.”

Solona gave in and placed one hand on the other forearm. Merely thinking of the Calling gave volume to the soft, intangible whispers at the background of her hearing.

She stumbled as the words scattered around in her head. But time was trickling, and she forced a nod.

“Then I apologize on behalf of my order for any unfair treatment,” formality had long become the second nature. “I know it is a vain hope, but I might end up needing your assistance later on.”

“I understand, Warden-Commander. And believe me when I say so: I hope you find what you seek.”

As the room was long behind her, her steps regained the purpose necessary to pretend like she belonged in the fortress. The entire conversation with the Grand Enchanter seemed almost unworldly.

Her fingers curled around something in the depth of her pocket, and she remembered to burn the note from Leliana.

\---

Cullen was glad to be back, he truly was: the moment the road swerved towards Skyhold to reveal its dented walls and glaring holes decorating the towers, he felt a sudden splurge of vitality. He pulled at the reigns to turn the horse around and sent it into controlled canter along the convoy line that was trailing in his steps. His abdomen was burning from the motion, but he needed the speed to nudge the soldiers through the deceptive terrain that was covered with fresh layers of snow.

Only a few dozen were returning to Skyhold, as they had shed off the rest of the forces along the way into the Frostback mountains. Trevelyan had taken his small group off to detour through the Exalted Plains with a promise of a speedy return, and Cullen was to deliver his retelling of the events at Adamant to the rest of the advisors. He didn’t enjoy the prospect.

To make things worse, his commanding voice was less than impressive: laboured and lacking the usual edge, but it was sufficient to prevent any incidents on the last stretch. He shepherded the men through the gate and watched the metal barrier drop down with a heavy sound behind the last of the carts. His grip on the reigns was merely a background thought, and his horse was growing anxious with their uncoordinated efforts, he felt.

 _Just a little longer_ , lightly bending forward, he placed a gentle pat on the back of the animal’s neck. A moment of peace allowed them both to catch a breath, and he let his eyes linger on the merchants, fretting over their stocks as the yard got crammed. Cullen smirked. He spared them a thought and inhaled a lungful of air.

“Keep the carts here and fetch Morris to deal with them!” he threw to his right, officer Thea giving him a short nod before she strode off. “Thomas, ask Elan to take a look at Rendon, that limp is obvious from a mile away. Everyone, move to the barracks, clear this area, move!”

It was an easy order: most of them wanted to hit the bed as much as Cullen did. But he felt the rush to action, blood flowing to his throat and ears, heat burning into the ambiance; and they didn’t, dragging the tired feet behind. He turned the horse around, watchful, eyes skimming over the small crowd of the Skyhold staff observing their weary return. He’d leave it to Josephine to break down the news: she had the penchant to embroider even the most drab things with inspirational flair.

Worming his way through the crowd, he steered towards the steps leading up into the courtyard, loud rumble behind him. Upon approach, Cullen spotted Leliana, hands folded behind her back. To her left, another woman.

One brief glance was enough to spark curiosity, so he looked closely. His vision narrowed.

He didn’t need to touch – or see - it to know that the cage was still there, keeping him a witness. Knuckles bare and bloody, knees bruised, sending hot jolts of pain up his legs. He’d shut himself out from the words, from the promises to _end this_ that were dangled in front of him – even as he could no longer tell what _this_ was. He had a prayer, the verses louder in his head than the whimpering, than the blood gargling in the tired and defeated throats. Brighter than the images of abominations growing into templar armour, large bloodshot eyeballs popping, sharp claws tearing at swollen flesh. Prayer was a tool, kept him numb to the wild guesses, the pestering questions of his desires. _None_. He had none.

Time wasn’t even real.

Her voice first, then her face shattered him from the daze, so vivid and clear, bright fresh blood on her cheekbones, eyelid swelling, questions loud over the distant screams, loud over the prayer.

He cracked, clearly he did. She couldn’t possibly be there.

“Cullen!” came Leliana’s stern call.

He nearly gasped - but was breathless. The movement underneath him made his legs stiffen with no thought, and his head bobbed helplessly. Skyhold, he discerned. He wasn’t safe, registered next.

His horse was prancing, its neck stiff and rear legs bending dangerously. His heart pounded loud in his ears, gaze narrow and sharp. He loosened the reigns and leaned forward, nudging the horse to move. Sweat settled in the tense area of his upper back, but in a few paces Cullen managed to dismount, his chest rising heavily. _He’d drifted off - and almost reared_. His fingers were trembling, knees rigid.

He turned, breath sitting in his lungs. Staring was impolite, he couldn’t help it.

She was still there.

Not a vision, not something his exhaustion could conjure: sharp jawline, dark shadows around her eyes, hair plain and long, and yet she was so distinctly herself. Maybe taller, he remembered her short.

Warden-Commander of Ferelden. _Amell_.

The stupor wore off as he noticed her tense glare and composed stance, paired in unmistakable defensiveness. Her lips were parted but still.

“Commander of the Inquisition’s forces,” he heard Leliana say, not to him, and in the moment he felt anything but. No further introductions followed. “Apologies for startling you, Commander, we were just walking the area.”

Something was to be said, he realized in a feverish rush, something by him. Amell remained quiet.

 _Something_.

“I, uh, I’m… I’m glad you could join us, uh, Warden-Commander,” his hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to move, _a handshake maybe?_ His palms felt horribly cold.

She responded with a modest nod, barely noticeable. Cullen wasn’t sure she intended it.

Much to his relief, Leliana moved to whisper something into Amell’s ear, pulling the attention off him. He watched them, head tilted, and his imagination couldn’t catch up with the possibilities of the subjects.

“I will notify Josephine of your return,” the Spymaster offered him, and, after a short squeeze on Amell’s shoulder, left.

Cullen found the sense to step closer.

She was still a whole head shorter than him, he noticed immediately. Perhaps they both had done a little growing after the tower.

He was smiling, and his ears were burning.

“Thedas almost seems like one small village in moments like this,” she finally spoke, sounding strained, with the arms crossed on her chest.   

“It- Yes,” he rubbed the back of his neck, cold surface of his gloves biting against the hot skin.

The erratic pounding of his heart quickened, as he searched his messy thoughts for a reply less curt: he was bad enough at idle talk, talking to _Amell_ after so many years was above and beyond his capabilities.

Cullen held his breath as she opened her mouth as if to say something, perhaps save him the embarrassment, but she chewed on her lip and looked away.

He could hardly ask how her day was, and yet that seemed to be the only question readily available to him. He was curious to hear her answer, too.

“There are many mages in here,” she eyed the yard behind his back before returning her gaze to him, implication clear. He had to guess it was that keeping her cautious. What he had said to her back in the tower: the accusations, the spiteful dismissal, the blame, all in the face of her compassion, – it had never failed to beset him.

He was doing better. He had to.

“Yes, they were instrumental in closing the Breach,” he replied wearily. “Uh, the Breach is what we called the larger-”

“I know what it is,” she said, low and disciplined, and he wondered how long she had stayed in Skyhold for. Was Cassandra aware?

“I see. I do not bear hostility towards them if that is what you are implying,” he offered carefully, watching her face. “But I understand where your concerns are… coming from.”

Amell seemed to consider his reply for a brief while, looking away as he tossed his weight from one foot to another. His word would hardly be of any worth to her, but it was all that he had.

“Did you accompany the Inquisitor to Adamant?”

Cullen felt his eyes widen, the question catching him by surprise. The events at the Warden stronghold were hardly something he wanted to talk about, less so with her. He nodded.

“How did it go?”

It gave him a pause - and time to rake his thoughts. There was truly a lot to tell, and yet most of the things he had personally been a witness to were the fighting at the walls and a handful of demons that had broken off the main battle. He chose to settle for the short version of the aftermath.

“What’s left of the wardens,” he persisted under her searing glare, “is now under Inquisition’s order. At the moment, they remain in Orlais to recover from the battle.”

“Just that,” she responded coldly. He didn’t like the decision either, but for an entirely different reason. “What of Warden-Commander Clarel?”

“Dead,” he watched her gaze shift down, and his chest twisted in a dull throb. “I’m sorry, that came off… were you close?”

Amell drew a deep breath and shook her head.

“Not at all,” she spoke, sliding her hands up and down her forearms. “But it is not every day that we-”

“Commander!” Cullen heard from behind his back and noticed Amell jolt at the sound. He turned to face the soldier: the man’s name wasn’t at the tip of his tongue as usual, not with his attention scattered like that. “Sorry to interrupt, Morris needs you urgently.”

“What it is?” he questioned with more steel than was warranted. He glanced at Amell at his side: she was studying the soldier with curiosity.

“He wouldn’t say.”

Cullen forced down a groan.

“I’ll-”

“It is fine, Commander,” Amell responded before he could finish, her eyes narrow under a frown. “I shall return to my reports.”

He stumbled at a reply. In the silence, she nodded at the soldier, the one he still couldn’t recall the name of, then at him - and walked away. He couldn't help but follow her with his eyes until she threw a short look at him from atop the staircase.

Cullen sighed, steadying himself.

“Alright, where is he?”


	6. No word back

“Didn’t you hear, fledgling?” a woman with a generous splash of freckles across her cheeks and nose slid onto the stool next to Solona. She gestured vaguely to the barkeeper, who, with as little as half a glance, recognized the woman and scurried in the direction of the kegs. “You are never truly off duty in service to Sister Nightingale.”

Solona smiled into her jug and took a small sip, wetting her lips with a thin coat of weak ale.

“I’m sorry?”

“Ah, don’t give me that. I’m Tanner. See, it’s easy to be polite,” a short laugh followed. The tavern entertained only a few guests that were hogging the corner tables in a desperate bid for some privacy. Music was expected: Solona had spotted a lute, perched on a chair next to the staircase, but there was no one to make it sing.

“Tanner,” the mage repeated, noting the plain clothes of washed-out green on her new acquaintance, likely hiding a dozen of layers. With a brief scoff, she nodded at her ale. “I don’t suppose your usual order is weaker than mine?”

“Nothing wrong with a little break,” Tanner shrugged, smile firmly set in the curve of her lips. “Just don’t get used to the peace and quiet, all I’m saying.”

The bartender placed the woman’s order, producing a loud clank. Same, with a muddy liquid inside.

“Peace and quiet don’t seem like an option these days,” Solona looked straight ahead, ignoring the sudden commotion up the stairs. Short, muffled yells quickly turned into hearty laughter.

“So. What’s the story here?” Tanner lifted her drink, but rather than take a sip, she stared at Solona with a spark of unmistakable curiosity. “How did they rope you into service?”

“Too easily, I’m afraid. I volunteered. You?”

“One of the good people, then,” Tanner concluded with poorly disguised mockery, although her eyes remained soft. “Me, I was just running my business in Redcliffe. Sadly, sir Inquisitor didn’t find it all too acceptable.”

Solona washed down the dryness in her mouth. “Sounds like a grudge.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” the other woman raised her jug in a silent toast and gulped at the ale. She let the pause sit for a while before she spoke again. “But it worked out in the end. I happen to fancy Nightingale’s style quite a lot.”

A much as she wanted to concur, Solona would never wish to appear on the receiving end of Leliana’s schemes, although in the moment it felt very much like she was.

“You’ve been here for a time, right? What do you make of the Inquisition?”

Tanner turned pensive for a change, averting her gaze. If there was a lot to ponder on the matter, her new acquaintance made a good display of it.

“The only ones doing something about the blasted demons and that insane monster Corypheus, but that is not what you’re asking,” Tanner finished almost questioningly. “They’re alright, I suppose. Lots of big words flying around. They draw in big coin, big favours. Good game, if you ask me. Could go bigger, but the Inquisitor is a noble, they don’t have to think about the future like we do. You follow me?”

Solona listened, thumbs running over the engraved metal hoops that kept her jug together.

“You mean, control the trade,” she smiled and spoke lowly, “offer protection to the caravans. Even, dare I say, establish alternative markets.”

“Something like that,” Tanner nodded enthusiastically. “See, _you_ understand, some just don’t. Yes, the demons got to be dealt with first, and we’re doing exactly that. Just no harm in planning a little further down the road.”

A soft but loud tune spread through the tavern, and Solona turned in the direction of the sound. She had heard the music emanating from the shack before, muffled and weak, but it was different to witness the performance. Nimble fingers played the lute, even the scruffiest patrons couldn’t help but glance at the bard. With a feeble spur of naiveté, Solona wished that to be Leliana.

“Did you leave a sweetheart behind?” Tanner leaned in closer to keep her voice tame over the music. Solona raised her eyebrow. “Maryden always gets me nostalgic, this is a good one.”

She deemed the question fair.

“No,” Solona answered. In the background, the bard tuned in with the lyrics, her voice wistful and pleasantly low. “Though, I imagine that is a frequent story around here. What about you?”

Tanner let the chorus finish before she replied.

“A sweetheart would be too smart of a word, but- She wasn’t too happy with my new position, no idea what that makes us now.”

“Even with you here, risking your neck, saving the world?” Solona chuckled.

“Even with me saving the world. It’s not everyone’s thing, apparently,” Tanner peeped into her jug, stirring the drink, and the smile withered in the corners of her lips. She was quick to bounce back with a light shake of her head. “Oh, and Sister Nightingale wants to see you tomorrow morning for an assignment.”

“Is that so?”

“Don’t worry, fledgling, I’m sure it won’t be something dangerous or remote. Consider it,” Tanner snapped her fingers, sound drowning in the music, “an initiation.”

Solona knew Leliana had better ways of contacting her, so the entire scene wasn’t for her benefit at all. It was almost endearing.

She placed a coin on the table and slipped off her stool.

“And she sent you to tell me this?”

“Not really, I just happen to know,” Tanner smiled, glancing over her shoulder to where Solona stood. “Take care!”

“You too, Tanner.”

The air outside was refreshingly unadulterated and stingy cold, and the sun had long settled below the horizon. Her drink was in no way strong, but it turned her senses unpleasantly keen, street lanterns playing painful tricks on her eyes. Tingly freeze quickly made its way up her limbs, so she hurried along in a brisk pace.

Something hit against her foot. Solona had stumbled over a small stone, the sole obstacle on her path, and found herself clutching something in her fist.

Her heartbeat was unnaturally fast for a small misstep, and she surveyed the tall shadows of the bailey. Content there was nothing, Solona uncurled her fingers. It was a ring, Grey Warden insignia recognizable in the faint light. Her ring. She had thought it lost somewhere along her frantic journeys throughout the country.

The ale, she reckoned, was more treacherous than it tasted.

No one was to enter her room, Solona doubted it was on anyone’s plan at all, and it was dark, raw cold garnering in the stone walls. She lit up enough candles to be able to read, set up a fire to battle the ache in her bones and pulled out a clean vellum.

The hour had to be late, as her lids grew heavy before she could even produce a page, mercilessly corrected over and over. Words refused to flow smoothly, and she gave up with little fight.  

Tanner’s cautionary message rang in her ears, and she dragged her uniform out from the depth of her bags – to let the fabric breeze, or so she told herself. It had to be ready whatever Leliana had in stock for her.

The blue of the metal plates stood out in starch contrast with the plain brown cloth, thrown on top of her bed to preserve the semblance of order in her room. Simple stripes ran down the chest piece, scratches rich on the leather from the encounters too close to comfort.

She hadn’t worn the Warden uniform in almost a year: it was heavy in her bags and difficult to look after, but it never once occurred to her to leave it behind. The armour was all belts, made easy to pass from one fallen member to another, and the first set was a gift from Weisshaupt upon her arrival to the Vigil’s keep.

Dozens of outfits in its image had been crafted by Wade since then, intricate designs catering to various combat styles, yet hers remained simple and awkward, adjusted only where it didn’t sit right. The previous owner, she guessed, had a bigger chest and longer arms.

The outfit wasn’t complete without a badge: Solona traced the markings as if to make sure it was tangible, and the skin of her fingers caught the pinching stench of iron. Rare few knew her in the face, most of those were the residents of Amaranthine and few dozen of nobles that either frequented her keep or had received an everlasting impression at the Landsmeet. But those were different times, and with a year of her absence, a plate of metal with a set of wings engraved into it offered more credibility than her word.

She slid under the covers without undressing, curling against the chill, and allowed one more thought of her scouts, tasked with charting the rifts around and through Amaranthine, before she gave in to the drowsiness.   

\---

Cullen had an oddly peaceful night, only waking once or twice in shaky anxiety. When the dawn started to cast its eerie blue light through the windows he could no longer force himself to fall asleep again.

His neck was hurting, needles of pain piercing the left side. Nothing that he wasn’t used to, and so long as the ache wasn’t travelling up towards his temples, he was content.

Cullen crammed the morning routine in the time before the first sunrays hit the walls of Skyhold, and latched onto the pile of correspondence he had only looked through the day before. His thoughts drifted. He knew it was childish of him to entertain a delay through the paperwork.

He placed a soft pat on his chest and pulled his journal from the pocket. Unfolded, it revealed careful notes about the assault on the Adamant keep, dry and dispassionate, written into the left side of the spread. It was an ordinary thing he had been doing, yet Cullen hesitated to pick up the quill and add something to the text. The memories in his head were shaky at best, echoing the images and words. They were slippery.

It had to be true, he reasoned, and if he dallied around long enough he could find her again, and, perhaps, he would be better with words. Those were difficult, both to say out loud and to write down. He managed a sentence, quill stumbling as he placed her name onto the paper.

One of the scouts dropped by to deliver a few messages from Josephine and to summon him for the routine inspection of the recruit training, held in the inner yard of Skyhold. A rush of agitation ran through him, and Cullen latched onto the work, as unremarkable as it was, like a hungry dog onto a bone.

Tenacious wind ruffled his hair as he paced around a dozen of two-man teams exchanging blows, staged like a sorry bar brawl. They were quick to run out of punch, beads of sweat glistening on their foreheads – poor grip and poor form made a short work of a man’s stamina. But it was more than two months ago, and certainly more than they had in the beginning.

Cullen singled out a pair of recruits whose knees weren’t stiff and whose eyes could see beyond the tip of the opponent’s sword, made them spar with each other while the rest watched, catching their wind. Somewhere in that hour, between the short comments and instructive yells, he called for a lyrium kit to be delivered to his office. The request raised no eyebrows, not from someone in his position.

He spotted it as soon as he stepped into the room, knew what to look for: the box sat politely in the corner of his desk, away from the clutter he had traded for the breeze of fresh air and a portion of sunshine. The sight of the lid alone, the box was standard issue after all, was sufficient to cause a stir in his chest, an odd crossing of repulsion and relief. Cullen knew what was inside, how the contraptions worked, how quickly the liquid could infuse his blood, and even so it was hard to resist a peek.

He pretended to ignore it for a while, but his entire head was too heavy to be an ally, with a reedy tune ringing in his ears, louder with each passing moment. Lines in the paper were toying with him, sense in them evasive and jumpy. He placed the letter down, resting the knuckles of his thumbs against the inner corners of his eyes. The pressure helped with the surging headache, but did little else. The box, the lyrium, was in front of him – he knew as much even with his eyes pressed shut.

Most of all he feared for his memories, as tormenting as some of them were, his family was there too: his parents and siblings huddled over a small dinner table, the youngest three racing through the corn fields, his older sister getting yelled at for letting Branson roam with a fever – something that was entirely Cullen’s fault. The joy he had felt the moment he got accepted for the templar training. It was all there.

A short but deliberate cough made him twitch.

Merely a foot over the doorstep and to his right was Amell, bright daylight hugging her silhouette. His face twisted into a frown.

His memories were true, he reminded himself.

“Your door was ajar, and you weren’t answering…” she trailed, never finishing the thought.

“Yes, come in,” Cullen rose to his feet, sharply aware that his office was lacking the second chair. It wasn’t needed for a report or a quick question, and he had never before spared it a thought.

Amell made no more than two steps further into the room, shutting the door behind her, much to his relief. She had come from the ramparts, not through the main hall. Cullen noted the discretion.

“What is that?” she asked carefully, eyeing the open lyrium kit. His hand twitched to slam it closed – a gesture, he realized, that edged on being more rude than effective.

“Uh, lyrium,” he admitted without looking down. Whether or not she could sense it, she frowned.

“Should I come back later?”

“No, it’s-“ Cullen swept the back of his hand across the forehead, squeezing his eyes. The ringing didn’t go away. “It might take a while until I… until I’m done here.”

Amell unfolded her arms, and his eyes followed to the stack of papers in her hands, creased where her fingers clutched onto them.

“How can I be of assistance?” he asked, stepping away from his desk.

“I have a letter I need delivered to the Wardens in Orlais,” from the distance Cullen noticed dark blotches of ink in her notes. A draft, he guessed. “Leliana said you could assist since it’s your people that are stationed there.”

“They are, yes,” he had ordered a dozen of soldiers to escort the Wardens to the Griffon Wing keep: Adamant itself was inhabitable for no one, blood still fresh on the cobblestones. Rylen shouldered the task of finding the next place where they could recover without too many Inquisition troops stepping on their toes, but at least it was possible to trace their movements. “I can send it out by nightfall, but, uh, I can’t help but notice it is not sealed.”

She glanced down as if seeing the writing for the first time.

“That’s right,” Amell murmured and crossed her arms, tucking the letter out of his view. “There are a few things I would like to set straight first – if you have time, Commander.”

He didn’t expect to be taken aback by the formality, she knew his name, after all, and was hardly a stranger. Cullen cleared his throat.

“Right. If you don’t mind the cold, I suggest we step outside.”

With some distance between him and the lyrium, concentrating became less of a painful task. Distant howling was fierce on any sounds, and Cullen had learned it offered more privacy at times than his own office. Amell sternly pushed her hair under the coat collar to keep it from swirling in the abrupt gusts.

“So, you have breached the gates of Adamant,” she leaned against the stone wall of the battlements, hiding from the wind, “and there was in-fighting already.”

“Yes,” Cullen nodded. “A large group opposed Warden-Commander’s decision to go through with the ritual. Unfortunately, that was almost too late. When we arrived, a great deal of the Wardens was either completely exhausted or defeated, it- it was a solid swing in our favour.”

“And that dragon of Corypheus, what you believe could be an Archdemon… It was there, yet no one tried to fight it?”

Cullen propped his shoulder on the wall next to Amell, an embrasure between them just narrow enough they could still hear one another. He glanced over the peaky mountain: the cold and the pure white of the snow was the furthest thing from what Adamant felt like.

“It did not appear until we attacked. The Venatori magister must have summoned it when the Inquisitor interrupted the binding ritual. At that point, the Wardens were mostly overrun.”

“Summoned it?”

He watched Amell tense up and squint her eyes. Whatever the dragon was, they seemed to be right in suspecting something odd.

“It is only a guess,” Cullen admitted.

“What about- Has it brought any darkspawn along?”

“Not exactly,” his memory served the correspondence with Rylen. “Our scouts reported their activity in the area, but none that I know of at Adamant.”

He couldn’t tell if his answers were of any help: she turned her attention inwards, eyes unfocused.

“I will need to see it,” Amell said, and even as she wasn’t looking his way, he nodded. “What happened to the magister?”

The sly face of Livius Erimond, crooked in scorn as the man had been dragged away by the Inquisition’s soldiers, sprung to Cullen’s mind, his upper lip twitching. He struggled to level his voice.

“Locked in a cell in Val Firmin as of now. He’s bound to be tried, but we couldn’t accommodate his transportation to Skyhold so quickly.”

“Here?” Amell sneered. “That is- Interesting.”

A sound of the old, rusty cogs grinding against each other roared from the structure below. Cullen couldn’t see the approach to the gates from his position, but he guessed a lone - or a few riders at most.

“I think this would suffice,” she straightened to look him in the eyes, and her face was unreadable. “I will be travelling tomorrow, but the letter should be ready today.”

“You mean you won’t be joining us at the council?” he couldn’t hide the confusion. “I- your input would be much appreciated.”

“Leliana thinks I need to stretch my legs, see what we are dealing with,” there was a hint of a smile to her tone. “Besides, I should speak to the Inquisitor first, make sure what happened in Adamant did not besmirch my standing.”

“I think that’s hardly possible,” he responded, observing a pair of scouts cross the ramparts on the far side of the keep. When they vanished in a tower, he noticed Amell study him inquisitively. His cheeks and ears prickled hot in the biting frost.

She shook her head.

“So, what is going on with you and lyrium?”

A shiver ran down his spine as his breath hastened, harsh and strung. Cullen had forgotten all about the box, the centerpiece of his desk, soft blue glow burning into his memory. He winced at the thought of his form, hunched over the small chest, fingers buried in his hair.

“Nothing, I-“

He saw little sense in denying.

“I _thought_ I could stop,” words gave form to his failure, made it settle in his head for the recount, “but the Inquisitor and I agree the adverse effects of that are… too much for the position I’m holding.”

Cullen could hear the weak commotion coming from the courtyard below. He didn't expect a silence, yet when faced with it he found it oddly comforting.

“How long has it been?” Amell asked. He felt her eyes on him.

“Ten months… I think. Some were better than the others.”

He could no longer tell which part of the way was the hardest: the incessant cravings had steadily filled his nights with terrors and at times made him too weak to hold the sword properly – the result was all the same. That didn’t seem to matter.

He almost tuned out by the time she finally spoke.

“You don’t have to start on a good day,” Amell suggested nonchalantly, and it sounded nothing like a question. Cullen couldn’t help but chuckle as he glanced at her.

“I suppose not.”

The howling of the wind ceased for a short beat, and he could almost make out distinct voices in the low rumble that engulfed Skyhold. Across from him, Amell pushed herself off the wall and offered a polite nod.

“Thank you for answering my questions. All of them.”

His office was exactly as he had left it, with no immediate tasks to occupy his mind. Cullen picked up the lyrium kit, judging its weight in his hands, and shoved it into a chest in a far corner of the room.

It _was_ a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to rewrite this one from scratch. Didn't expect this to happen so soon, yet here we are.


	7. An offer of help, on their terms

The Inquisition’s horses were remarkably well-behaved and very forgiving of an occasional tug that was a little too hasty or strong. Neither did they need a lot of convincing to tread off the beaten road - the particular one she had been entrusted with, at least.

Nearing a rift, whether on horseback or on foot, was strongly discouraged by Leliana, who, nonetheless, wanted Solona to find one and mark its location, insisting it was done from a high vantage point. Dealing with a rift had grown to be quite a choir for the Inquisitor, but for anyone else, it almost guaranteed a sad and unremarkable demise, or so she had been told. Despite that, they both agreed Solona needed to witness one first-hand, and the expansion of the Inquisition's operation into Orlais provided just the opportunity.

Across the mountain chain, about three days in a brisk pace, laid the region of Emprise du Lion, frozen in solemn stillness – her scouting destination. She had found the journey enjoyable for the solitude it provided, no longer required to meticulously study the faces of the fortress residents for recognition.

The trek was, reportedly, largely abandoned, with no known trading routes or town connections running through the region, which allowed the Inquisition to treat it rather dismissively. A rare traveler chose the paths that could stand deserted for a long time, and the warning crossed her mind at the sight of fresh imprints in the snow, pointing to not one, but three riders. She bent over to study the discovery, her hair swayed against the irritated skin of her cheeks.

One set of horse tracks was stamped deeper into the snow: a steed encumbered by either a heavy rider or an unreasonable amount of load. Without hesitation, Solona steered her ride to follow the new course, leading back into the mountains, and her horse had to fight against the rising slope and the growing fatigue.

A small clearing appeared to her right: a thin coat of snow was hugging the soil, stones breaking out from its white with their grey blandness. She recognized a plateau and dismounted to follow a thin stream of smoke escaping from between the cliff walls further ahead.

Careful as to not fall prey to the underlying terrain, she made wide strides towards the opening, hiding her trail with a tame wind spell.

“-more spice!” she froze when a feeble mumbling turned into words, her fingers hovering just above the hilt of her sword. “I wouldn’t dare call that thing meat, might at least make it taste indiscernible.”

Solona ducked to the ground as soon as she saw horses, tied to a hastily fashioned wooden post: a crooked plank beaten into the ground – one clumsy manifestation of magic if nothing else. The animals didn’t seem to notice her, or at least she kneeled far enough not to startle them.

“Maybe you do it yourself then, for a change?” a second voice made a retort, likely belonging to a man. It was smooth, almost velvety, even in the wraps of faint echoes.

“It is bad enough we get chased, with our tail between our legs, out of one wasteland, now we are stuck doing mindless work in yet another,” high-pitched and shaky, the owner of the first voice rumbled. That, too, sounded like a man. They weren’t nested deep into the hollow, Solona judged.

“How is it that I see you open your mouth, but only moaning comes out?” exasperation was thick and obvious. “I should learn to stop expecting anything meaningful.”

“I shall complain whenever I want to, just so you are aware. I could be dining in my villa in Marnas Pell – do you even realize what it means?They are very expensive, by the way. I have a sea view!” brief pause was filled with a sound Solona couldn’t place. “That is ten times the view I get here.”

“Your loyalty to the Elder One would go into the books one day, for sure.”

She shifted abruptly, an action that two horses acknowledged with weak neighing. Her knee was sore under her weight, crooked to bear the entirety of it. Slowly, watching the animals with a keen eye, Solona pushed her side into the nearest rock. Even as it helped with the ache, the voices were just as fickle.

“So long as I don’t get to deal with the stuff directly. It gives me headaches just being in the lowlands. Our friend here agrees- I think.”

_Three_.

“Well, you’re dealing with it now, probably in the only way your weak mind can handle.”

A low rumble from the mountain chain above interrupted what Solona assumed was the first voice erupting into a protest. When the sound dissolved into the distance, the conversation lost its antagonistic mood, likely on the behalf of the meal.

“You will come back, right?” the first man asked shakily. “I mean, I know _he_ won’t, not on this side at least, but I want to-”

“To the meeting point and back. I intend to make it through, although who knows if the darkspawn have actually abandoned this passage.”

She glanced up the height of the cliff, eyes narrow, and listened in. As before, the only nagging sound in her ears was the two Tevinter, having something akin to a heated dinner table argument. With the area so indistinctively dull, snow, rock and tree carcasses all around, the only inkling to the location of the entrance to the Deep Roads was her deviation off the planned route.

“I thought they were sure!”

“Oh, like they’ve struck a deal with the king of the darkspawn? Right. You think _this_ is tough, consider pushing all the loaded carts through these caves. It is about to get lively in here,” the second man spoke with thin humour.

She could clearly hear the low whistle of the wind through the cracks in the stone while the men lunged at their meal, too consumed to continue their talk. It was jarring and aggravating, cold getting all the way to the top of her head, to remain still and, even more so, idle. Solona forced her attention away from the physical worries, striving to split it between the conversation in the cavern and her senses, reaching out for any blighted creatures in the vicinity.

“Does he-” the first man started weakly, and Solona grimaced for the effort. “I mean, does he truly not need any- oh, I don't know- furs? I can't imagine how cold it gets down there.”

“I'm content with him knowing a friend from a foe, frankly,” his companion confessed in what she could tell was an uncharacteristic manner. “Perhaps there is still a man in there.”

“You better hope there isn't then, because this whole plan hinges on him having quite a one-track mind.”

“Well... we have seen it work,” the second man maintained. “Bloody bastards have a sense for the stuff like no other. Besides, he is a much more reliable companion in there than you are.”

“Gloat all you want, at least I will get to see the sky for the next few days-”

Slowly she rose to her feet.

Body bent close to the ground, Solona retreated back into the safe distance, where she could afford to no longer care for the sounds she made. From there on, her strides were heavy and as fast as she could possibly muster.

Her horse was still tied to a tree as she had left it, standing under the light snowfall. It made a small, soft sound as she approached, allowing her access to the bags. With a light pat for a greeting, Solona pulled out a map and hastily spread it against the animal's back.

She followed her path along the scrupulously charted drawings of the mountains, the line for the road slim and unsure, going through several folds of the map before she reached a possible candidate. The shapes were obscure, and the forms of the forest told her nothing, but the terrain elevation pattern matched. Procuring a small piece of charcoal, she placed a mark with a numbed hand. According to the map, there was nothing within the miles, save for one place.

Down below was a small village of Sahrnia.

\---

Vivienne passed him, hand tenderly pressed to the side of her head. While normally she preferred to ignore Cullen’s existence, he was the closest person available to hear out her grief.

“Not an hour back, and already showing off to whoever was foolish enough to lend him an ear. The echoes only make it worse,” she wandered towards the front door without ever stopping. Cullen couldn’t hear Dorian from where he was standing, but if it was enough to chase Vivienne out of the castle, it had to be quite dramatic.

He couldn’t find a comfortable pose to wait, his back grew painfully stiff one way or another, hands felt misplaced on the hilt of his sword. He only hoped that he didn’t look as high-strung as he was feeling, while his mind was busy telling his limbs he had nothing to be anxious about.

Cassandra entered the hall when Cullen was on his seventh cycle in front of the corridor that led into Josephine’s office. He forced down a sigh of relief: as stern as she looked, her presence supplied him with a friendly, although a very confused one, company.

“Is it true?” she leveled up with him and spoke with hardly repressed vexation. Before he could even produce a sound, Cassandra shook her head. “Don’t answer. Of course it is.”

“Did you get to speak with him?”

Her shoulders dropped, and so did the frown on her face. There were a few loose locks around her ordinarily immaculate hairdo, Cullen noticed.

“Yes. He is with Lady Montilyet now,” her mouth twitched into a smile, but she was quick to absorb the weight of the circumstances. In the company of two, she allowed herself to muse. “Both of them now. I can imagine the Maker is having quite a laugh at my expense…”

“It is peculiar,” Cullen agreed, yet he had never once stopped to think about the twist of events leading him to fret at the doors into the council room. “But I don't think you have anything to disparage yourself for.”

She scoffed, loud enough it was almost affectionate. Between the yearnful looks to the front door and the erratic beat of her foot against the floor, Cullen couldn’t tell if she wanted to get on with the meeting or flee into the yard to beat something with a heavy stick.

“She was here for some time. _H_ _ere_ ,” Cassandra voiced, lips pressed into a pout. Cullen brought a hand up to rub the bridge of his nose, felt being watched closely. “You knew.”

The hall was uncharacteristically low on visitors, which, quite unfortunately, robbed Cullen – and Cassandra - of any distractions. He had nothing to answer to that.

“There is so much we could have asked by now!” she went on, tense hands waving around her face, and he had to remind himself of what he had found convincing in the first place.

“If there was anything urgent, we have already learned it through Leliana,” he reasoned, yet Cassandra remained defiant, arms crossed on her chest. Something told him she wasn't set on being angry forever.

Trevelyan joined them just as she was about to go looking, Josephine striding along to keep up with the man’s wide paces. Without any knowledge, he could easily pass for a well-rested person, spirited and energetic: the cold air of the Frostbacks relentlessly kept everyone on their toes.

He kept the glove over the Mark, which was hardly a good sign, yet it wasn’t an appropriate time to inquire. Even Cullen understood as much.

“Shall we?” Josephine forewent a rather formal greeting to nudge them towards the meeting room.

Inside, Leliana traced something on the map with her finger as Amell watched her, hands resting on the small of her back. She was clad in what Cullen could only guess was the warden uniform, a drastic change from the plain brown leathers she had worn before. Both women stood to attention when Cassandra closed the door behind her.

With the sun at its peak, the entire chamber was bathed in lush and vibrant colours, born through the tall window glass. Surreal like a sophisticated spell, it was biting at his eyes, large bright spots visible even as he blinked. Swiftly, Cullen glanced through the room and saw no one else noticeably disturbed. His headache was returning.

“Your Worship,” Josephine took a small step and gestured to her side, voice soft and light as if it wasn’t the news to her at all, “allow me to introduce Warden-Commander of Ferelden, lady Solona Amell.”

Trevelyan tilted his head, eyeing the woman in front of him. He didn’t say a word, frozen in contemplation, and Josephine couldn’t help but exchange confused glances with Leliana. To his left, Cassandra walked around the Inquisitor to get a better look at the Warden-Commander.

Cullen cleared his throat.

“Thank you for heeding to our plea, lady Amell,” Inquisitor extended with a light shake of his head, sounding lacking. A brief rush of relief nudged Cullen to move, and so he walked up to the table to lean against it for support, as Trevelyan continued. ”I hope you’ve found your stay here enjoyable so far.”

“Most generous of you, Inquisitor,” Amell replied. “It is quite a formidable force that you have gathered under this banner, and in such a troublesome time, no less. Now, I understand you have recently experienced an extremely unfortunate encounter with some of my order. I'd be lying if I said it doesn't... concern me – or make me question if you are willing to accept my help.”

“It was not pleasant, true,” Trevelyan winced, and with so many eyes turned towards him, the gesture went widely acknowledged. “But it would be foolish of me to dismiss your offer, lady Amell. I have only just learned of your arrival, but I'm hoping, in fact, you could shed some light on the things I've seen. There, and elsewhere.”

From where he stood, Cullen could see Leliana's shoulders drop as she muttered something under her breath. She looked quite pleased, as much as she let on.

“I will need to see the research you have gathered on Corypheus, Inquisitor,” Amell spoke and was met with a nod from Trevelyan. “The rumours I've heard make me think I might have something substantial to contribute.”

“We should-”

“Is it the Archdemon?” Josephine jumped as Cassandra cut in, her question loud and demanding. Cullen could see why a threat of a new Blight troubled her so much, and the question must have been nibbling at Cassandra since she first heard of the meeting.

As a prelude to the response, Amell smiled bitterly.

“I would assume that dragon isn't,” she looked straight at Cassandra, “but to be sure I would need to get closer to it. Or talk to some of the wardens at your disposal.”

“Blackwall was there,” Leliana chimed in, drawing a portion of Cassandra's pressure.

“He should be by the stables,” Cullen tested his voice. Rather notably, it didn't sound broken.

Amell watched him straighten, concern written in the creases around her eyes.

“I will speak with him then,” she concluded. “I wish it were more straightforward than this, Lady Seeker, but so far I have only dealt with one Archdemon, and I can't afford to be wrong.”

Trevelyan placed a hand on Cassandra's forearm as she was about to say something, and spoke with her silent approval.

“Now that you have full access to our resources, lady Amell, I hope you can find the time to look through our records?”

“One thing to consider, if I may?” Josephine lifted her quill, eyebrows knotted following the plea in her voice. “Warden-Commander, given our circumstances, I think we must consider your involvement with what in no way constitutes a neutral party.”

The fabled impartiality, Cullen recalled with slim annoyance. Throughout history, it had proven to be more a nuisance than an actually helpful mechanism to control a military force that was bound to a country anyway.

“With the Inquisition representing the Chantry, yes. That is a good point, Lady Ambassador,” Amell smiled, mirroring Josephine's polite demeanour. “Although the Inquisitor's decision to absorb the wardens of Adamant isn't trivial at all, it plays well into my hands. Together with the investigation into the origin of Corypheus, I can weave it into something neither Weisshaupt nor the nobles you'll have to deal with, can dispute.”

“Ah,” Josephine scribbled something down before she hastily continued. “That... addresses my concerns entirely, Warden-Commander.”

“Good,” Trevelyan gauged the room. “We shall assemble first thing in the morning, lady Amell. I assume I will see you then?”

Cullen watched her for the signs of relief, given the outcome of the meeting, but found none. If it were poise, he himself was nowhere near as good.

“Thank you, Inquisitor, I will get on to it.”

Leliana was the first to turn towards the door, as Amell called out.

“Before you go, Inquisitor, Commander, might I have a few more moments of your time? I'm afraid it doesn't tolerate a delay.”

Cullen glanced at Trevelyan to see the same bewilderment he expected to be on his face. They lingered, while the rest of the company cleared the chamber.

Amell slid her hand over the map and fixed a folded corner as the sounds of footsteps and muffled voices died away. With her hair pulled back and the expression of serene determination, she looked almost regal.

“Lord Trevelyan, you must be exhausted from the road, so I will be brief. And, Commander, before _you_ say anything I ask that you hear me out fully.”

Cullen felt the familiar spasm of distress set in his jaw. Through great effort, he nodded almost dismissively.

“While you have expressed satisfaction with our arrangement, I think there is another issue I can assist with,” the light flickered on the metal plates of her armour, and Cullen fought to keep his head straight. “I am in no way a renowned diplomat, yet I hope it is not a surprise I know a thing or two about commanding a military force. That being said... Should you grant a permission, I can lend a hand in running your forces.”

Taken aback, Cullen opened his mouth only to promptly close it when no words sprung to mind. He tossed a glance at Trevelyan, who seemed far less surprised.

“A generous offer, considering how much you have on your plate already,” Cullen watched him talk, absent-mindedly, as he raced through the possibilities it opened. “I would welcome your help in any way you are willing to assist, and I imagine we are always quite short-handed.”

Cullen felt it was his cue to speak with the sudden onset of silence.

“We could benefit greatly from your expertise, Warden-Commander,” he asserted, cold hands folded on the hilt of his sword. Amell offered a small, delicate nod. He could swear - with the cracking in his head he was couldn't be sure - but her face seemed to soften.

“I am glad we see eye to eye on this,” she drew a deep breath. “In such case, I believe, there is no reason to set back Commander's recovery?”

Cullen flinched, blood pounding heavy in his temples. His head started to spin before he even realized the meaning of her words.

“Amell...” he stuttered sloppily, tone weak beyond his control.

“What do you mean?” Trevelyan was quicker on his feet. “What recovery?”

“She means- _Maker_ , Warden-Commander means lyrium,” Cullen admitted, watching the impartial calmness in the firm posture of her back, the light touch of her fingers on the table surface. It had a peculiar soothing effect, as he noticed the stress in his shoulders to wither.

“I have seen enough lyrium madness to last me a lifetime,“ she professed. “I think it's about time someone tried to see what is on the other end.”

Trevelyan waved the healthy hand in the air, a motion on the periphery of Cullen's vision.

“It is not that I don't wish to see him get better, it is his _life_ that I am most concerned about,” the Inquisitor retorted, and, with unexpected detachment, Cullen observed the man struggle with himself in silence that neither he nor Amell chose to disturb. “Cullen... if Warden-Commander can assist you through the- the relapses, I will not object.”

Amell looked at him for much longer than before, head tilted. Cullen needed to say a word of thanks, at least, as if that would suffice, to convince her his quiet was not for the lack of gratitude, or the dull acceptance of her offer as a given - but rather for his tight chest, for how ineloquent he always was.

Instead, he nodded, tongue-tied, unsure of what was revealed on his face.

“Sorry for robbing you of your rest, Inquisitor,” Amell posed, “I will do so no longer. Commander, I will report to you as soon as I'm done with the... well, settling in.”

With a light bow, Trevelyan offered to walk her to the library, and they left, disappearing into the fortress halls. Cullen stayed to adjust the markers on the map until they were up to his knowledge.

Josephine wasn't in her office, likely tending to the pile of newly-acquired tasks pertaining Amell's station, and Solas spared him nothing but a short greeting, as he strode back to his tower. The vines were growing over it thicker every day, an untended blotch of green against the endless row of pale grey and white, and he paused to take in the view, realizing with bemusement, that these were his very first private quarters.

 


	8. Trouble in Skyhold

The round walls, the flimsy wooden shelves overstuffed with books, the low rumbling and the scattered rays of sunlight sneaking their ways into the library all but reminded her of the Circle. At a brief glance, the selection of the tomes was reasonable at best, and she guessed she would rather find the reading much more to her liking in the mage tower.

She had settled in a small alcove, arguably the cosiest area in the library, where the Inquisition’s reports had been delivered onto her ever-growing pile of the tomes she considered worth looking at. On the floor above, Leliana was working on the arrangements to broker an alliance with some Orlesian family, and they managed to sneak in a few heartfelt smiles across the opening through the centre of the room.

Fiona was a frequent visitor to the library on that day, but her concerns laid with the rows of books rather than with any of the hall’s occupants. The first time their eyes met Solona was munching on a slice of bread so kindly presented to her by one of the maids. Despite the joke the two wardens, however engaged, had shared on that, the Grand Enchanter remained stingy with expressions of friendliness.

Nibbling on the quill in her hand, Solona occasionally watched her converse with another woman, if only to let her eyes wander in relaxed ease. That woman, as became apparent rather quickly, was the resident researcher – and one particularly interested in the Grand Enchanter’s opinion. The elven woman seemed glad to lend her expertise, but the library was more a side assignment she was doing enthusiastically on her own time than a duty, and so she often went away.

The Ambassador dropped by a few times, her step light and presence airy, not meaning to startle but managing to do so anyway. Her inquiries were brief and on point, as she had arranged for Solona to keep the room – with some concessions to refashion it. She also presented the draft of the statement that formally declared the Grey Wardens had willingly come to the Inquisition’s aid, with no mentions of Clarel or Adamant. As grateful as she was, Solona hoped the pique travelled no further up her face than her clenched jaw.

She finished with the reports when the third candle on her desk turned into a sizeable stain of melted wax, her back sore and stomach empty. Much to her own surprise, rather than bring her spirits down, the revelations that the papers carried sent her mind reeling with the vibrant call to action she hadn’t experienced since the assault on the Mother’s lair so many years before. She dismissed the numbness in her feet and left the library, remembering the promise she had made earlier that day.

Solona was almost through the main hall, filled with the scanty crowd of small and extraordinarily small nobility, as something crashed into her hip. She stumbled one foot short of plunging onto the floor – only to notice a pair of strong arms wrapped tight around her waist. A head of red hair was all she got to see, as she stepped from one foot to another to regain balance.

“It’s really you, it’s really-really you! Oh, I was afraid something happened, but I _knew_ there is no way you would let something happen!”

Solona held her hands helplessly in the air until the pieces finally clicked into place.

“Dagna?” she hesitated, but one look at the sizzling face of her old acquaintance wiped away any semblance of a doubt. The researcher’s cheekbones were just as prominent, pink in a gleeful smile, and her eyes bore the youthful joviality as if the past decade had happened for everyone but her. “What are you doing here?”

The entire scene, to her great relief, warranted only a few castaway glances from the modest audience, and Solona’s question got Dagna to pounce back in an agile move. The length to which she was surprised still kept her heart racing, yet, underneath the excitement, she knew it was not entirely far-fetched for Dagna to be a part of the new Inquisition.

“Oh, me? I’m helping with the magical things. You wouldn’t believe what I get to see here every day!” the dwarf proclaimed proudly and clasped her palms together, but the obviously subdued bob of her feet ruined the poor image of composure. “Please, tell me you’re staying!”

Solona chuckled. Dagna’s joyfulness was contagious, and before she knew it, she was hit with a severe urge to do some hopping of her own. It was silly, Solona understood, but her head felt light. After short consideration, she offered a gentle: “I should be.”

“That’s great! I, uh, I have an experiment running, and I really, _really_ shouldn’t leave it for too long,” Dagna propped forward and mouthed ‘it’s red lyrium’ quite articulately. “I just needed an advice from Lady Vivienne. She doesn’t like to, but she helps me from time to time!”

“It sounds very important, Dagna,” Solona replied warily, her face twitching between a smile and a frown.

“Find me when you have the time! It’s that door over there,” the dwarf gestured towards the far corner of the hall. “And mind the stairs!”

Solona walked outside the fortress when the night had already started to claim the sky: the prickly air assaulted her tired eyes, and she had to pull the hems of her collar forward to keep the chill from travelling down her spine. After sunset, the life in Skyhold moved closer to the tavern, where the rowdy chants of its occupants attempted to follow the cues of a much gentler melody; and yet there was plenty of movement throughout the fortress walls and the yard below. With her efforts no longer wasted on sneaking the corridors, she could afford to observe the place at her leisure. It never surrendered to the sleep completely, not with the guards propping their backs up on the lookout, the healers darting through the makeshift beds, or the scouts hurrying in their soft, silent boots.

The pathway took her right to the door of Cullen’s office, what she hoped was her last stop before the retreat into the seclusion of her room. Unlike in the daylight hours, there was no one tarrying nearby, not a messenger or a dedicated guard, but on the far side of the wall she spotted a patrolman making his round.

With slightly more force than would do for any of the doors inside the fortress, she rapped at the wood and tucked her hands under the armpits. However inconvenient, it kept the warmth her body still carried from escaping, and she made a mental note to consider acquiring furs again.

The muffled sound of steps caught her in half spin, and when the door flung open, Solona had already returned into a pose of idle waiting. Cullen’s eyes widened the moment he recognized her.  

“I’m sorry if I disturbed,” she spoke over the stutter that her teeth threatened to break into. “I hope you weren’t asleep just yet.”

“N-no, uh, no,“ he stepped aside allowing her entry, and Solona walked right in. Behind her, the door closed with a soft thump.

The sudden onrush of warmth was as invigorating as it was disarming. Few steps into the room she was presented with the view on his workplace: the pile of unsealed letters and a map, rolled out across his desk with two books and a cup acting as weights, indicated, rather plainly, that she had interrupted something.

“Would you like some tea?” he offered, coming up to face her.

“Yes, thank you,” Solona backed into the wall, giving him room to manoeuvre. The serene rustle of the fire and the crisp rattling of the pottery disturbed the quiet, and she took the time to size up the ladder leading to a semblance of a second storey which hadn’t quite registered with her on the first visit. Solona huffed at the sight of the large gap in the roof, with teeth of crumbled lumber running along its edge.

“That- I plan to take care of that,” Cullen approached her with a cup in hand, clots of steam weaselling out from it into the air. She took the drink and followed him to the desk. Upon closer look, the splayed map depicted the east of Orlais, with thin threads of roads and rivers knitted on the paper. Looking at Solona, he tapped a finger against the parchment. “Leliana told me you needed an estimate of a force we could spare to relocate into Emprise du Lion. She didn’t directly state - she rarely ever does - but I assume it has something to do with the red templar activity there?”

“I’m afraid she made it sound more urgent than it actually is. It would be reckless to move in without proper investigation,” her eyes, nonetheless, were enthralled by the set of arrows flowing into the area around the Frostback Mountains with neat numbers attached to each. If the distance allowed for them to gather in a timely fashion, she reckoned, it wasn’t even a feeble force.

“Well, she didn’t- Listen, there is something… quite a lot, in fact,” Cullen said, turning his back on the desk. Solona turned to him, puzzled. “I- I should not have waited so long to say it. Thank you _._ ”

He looked at her, eyes carrying the softness that made him look so much more recognizable, and before she could say her piece, continued.

“The Inquisitor was right: you have enough worries of your own. An entire arling, I hear. That is nothing to scoff at.”

“All taxes and merchants, and no balls to flaunt,” Solona smiled, waving her free hand dismissively. The ease with which the jest came to her, despite the wariness, reminded her of the long hours at the top of the tower spent in fond conversation. She had been young then. “Not to mention, if Corypheus is not defeated, all other concerns become insignificant.”

They had been friends once, too.

“And yet you didn’t have to bring me up, not at all. Not after the Circle,” he murmured, head hung. “You saved my life - and whatever was left of the tower, and I spoke to you… as if you were Uldred himself. I should have never said those things.”

Solona knew the right thing, of course: the right thing was not to feel relief; it was to admit she had forgotten all about their scuffle, the raw pain of the very first heartbreak. Everything surrounding that day in the tower had been graciously swept off to the outskirts of her memory; what remained was the venom of his words telling her that, as a mage, she was not meant to be loved – but he had only been the beginning of that, after all.

She looked down at her hands, pale fingers clinging to the warmth of the pottery between them.

“It was a difficult time for everyone,“ Solona spoke courtly, fully aware of how noncommittal that sounded. She watched him knead his palms, and the drink in her cup seemed more appealing than ever. “I appreciate you saying this.”

“It doesn’t really change anything,” Cullen flashed a bitter smile, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I wanted you to know this.”

Pushing a strand of hair away from her face, she nodded and washed down a lump in her throat with tea. She had rarely returned to the events of the Circle in her thoughts, and only once she had allowed her imagination to weave a tale of her never becoming a Grey Warden. In it, she would not allow Uldred to progress as far as he had, and she’d eventually be free enough to travel and explore the life outside the tower. The Blight would somehow be stopped, not by her, and the villages she’d visit would be full of people working their land.

As for Cullen… That story had never come true anyway.

“Lady Montilyet informed me of the meeting tomorrow,” Solona cut the silence. “Do you mind walking me through the arrangement of the Inquisition’s forces?”

“I-” he trailed and looked at her, eyebrows furrowed and lips curved in a smile, making her heart skip a beat. Whatever Cullen was about to say, he slipped into the stately appearance of a commander instead. “Let me fetch some maps first.”

\---

He had tousled in bed for the remainder of the night, juggling the time that had seemed to stretch out merely to torture him. Cullen’s head resembled a bubble, light and tender to the touch, so he took care to pick his movements with caution when he finally decided to give in and begin the new day.

The morning exercise was a bet fraught with danger of tumbling right in the middle of the sparring ring, his eyes burning to the point they threatened tears. But his sergeants had arrived for the training arranged well in advance, and he intended to see it through by any means.

Much to his relief, it was easier to work with the troops who had seen real battle and were leading small groups on their own: his job in the yard boiled down to correcting minor mistakes until they moved indoors for the briefing.

He was well through the better half of the exercises he had planned when a rapid movement in the background caught his eye.

“Commander!” a man in the scout uniform jogged up to him, and the hood on his head had long slid down to reveal tousled blond hair. Cullen felt his stomach twist in anticipation, and he turned whatever scraps of attention he could towards the man. “There is a matter that requires your presence. It’s- It’s outside of the keep, sir.”

“What happened?” Cullen eyed the soldiers to his side, wary rubbing off on him with alarming haste.

“It’s a couple of mages,” the man bent forward and proceeded to mumble. Fighting the natural urge to lean in, Cullen imagined they looked extraordinarily conniving. “We found them skulking at the cliffs nearby. The trouble is, they are not too eager to come back. Sir.”

Cullen rubbed his forehead, allowing a short moment of quiet before he gestured the senior officer to take over.

“Lead on.”

Trotting through the snow got tougher bit by bit as they abandoned the stamped path and proceeded to backtrack a sweep of deeply nested marks that the wind had started to wipe from the view. The area around the fortress had long been explored and charted out to accommodate the needs of the scouts and merchants alike, so Cullen had a rough idea of the ground to expect. They snaked through a valley of large rocks that was more slippery than the rest of the way, and, as it was nearing an end, he could already make out a ruckus expecting him ahead.

The problem was everything the scout had described: three Inquisition’s soldiers, one a templar if Cullen’s memory served him right, were pleading with a pair of mages, backed into a steep rock. The transgression was entirely petty: they’d snuck out of the keep with no permission or purpose, but it had taken a turn to worse when they refused to return upon being discovered.

One of the two, a young woman, was sustaining a barrier, a thin veil of magic flickering in the sunlight, teeth clenched in both anger and concentration. Behind her was a man, not as actively engaged in an argument with the soldiers as he was in one with his fellow mage. The heated exchange halted only for a few mere moments before the attention jumped onto Cullen.

“Commander, thank the Maker you’re here!” the templar acknowledged, arm twitching in what could only be an attempted salute. His next words were cut off by the female mage.

“Of course, they’d call for _you_!” she barked, and the hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck stood up in familiar awareness: the stance of acute perception he had been trained to enter in the presence of strong magic. “Not the Grand Enchanter, not even the bloody Inquisitor – you!”

Cullen straightened, fully in her view, and made one stride towards the mages, hands still at his sides. As much as he itched for the safety of a weapon between his fingers, he wasn’t going to blindly risk a display of his abilities, whatever good they were still for with no lyrium in his veins.

“What are their names?” he asked instead, as quiet and intelligible as he could. The answer was bordering on an impartial shrug, but at least he learned the man was called Emery.

“No matter what you’re mumbling about, know that it will not work!” the female mage threatened, but the occasionally thin spots in the barrier said otherwise. Cullen ignored the urge to consider exploiting that.

“What do we do, sir?” another soldier inquired in a voice much tamer and more even than that of her partners.

Culled fought the desire to scowl, and answered loud enough for the mages to hear: “We take them back to Skyhold.”

His response further fuelled the ire of the woman holding the barrier, but he expected exactly that. If she was so determined to maintain the spell, anger was the last thing she needed to feel.

“And if we don’t want to go back?” the female mage retorted, goading him.

“Kitty, please…” the man behind her finally spoke, head turning between his companion and the group across from him. For a moment Cullen thought Emery’s eyes held a silent plea.

“No, Emery, let’s hear what the Commander has to answer.”

Cullen pulled his shoulders back, torso stiff and straight, and walked in front of his soldiers, not an inch closer towards the rogue pair.

“It isn’t safe out there, not for anyone, and especially not for a pair of mages,” he reasoned, hearing murmurs from behind his back.

“Oh, so it is just like the Circle then?” the woman known as Kitty - which, he guessed, was probably an affectionate name – bent even further under the weight of her own spell. Cullen noted not to push much. “Being watched, tiptoed around, right? Because the outside world hates us, so you are the only one who stands to protect the _poor_ mages?”

“Listen, Kitty, you’re exhausted-” Emery pitched in, gauging the ruptures in the barrier.

“I can do this in my sleep,” she shot back, her arms unsteady. “And _you_ – not a step further. I don’t want to go back! It’s exactly where we started: the Chantry telling us what to do and, best of all, how to do it! Just because there is no order anymore, doesn’t mean the templars no longer breath down our necks!”

“You’re nowhere, in fact,” Cullen conceded. “All of us are nowhere. At least so long as Corypheus remains a threat, mages have been given the freedom to govern themselves within the alliance with the Inquisition. What happens next depends-”

“I’m tired of this! I’m tired!” she whimpered, fully ignoring him, and Cullen met Emery’s worried gaze. Kitty was shaking, her barrier cracking with flashes of light, and it would have just been so easy for Cullen to make it go away. “I don’t- They all look at me like I’m-like I made that hole, like I just shoved my hand through the Veil and- and pulled all the demons out!”

“But we helped seal it… You, Kitty, helped seal it,” Emery reminded.

“I don’t care!”

Cullen felt his skin sting and his view grow wide. The barrier around the mages erupted.

He came back to senses to the bright blue of the sky and soft muffling sound in his ears, as if huge pillows were pressed into them. Cullen was on his back, and before the feeling of pain caught up with him, he rose to his feet. He counted himself lucky: the snow had saved his head against the damage much worse.

Kitty collapsed on her knees first, body swaying from side to side, and then the fatigue caught up with her: eyes closed, she plummeted onto the side. Emery was quick to pull her into his lap, watching Cullen and the Inquisition’s soldiers approach with due alertness. The mage, seeing that no weapons were drawn, allowed them near his companion.

With Kitty slung over the templar’s shoulder and a vow not to blabber about the scuffle, they set on the way back to Skyhold. Much to his dismay, Cullen remembered it was an uphill hike, and having nothing else to preoccupy itself, his head got saddled with throbbing pain.

He’d have preferred to walk in silence, but when they cleared the treacherous climb through the rocks, Emery levelled up with him, a feat impressive for a man so much shorter. Upon a closer look, the mage couldn’t be a year above twenty-five. With pale skin, raven hair and a pair of eyes to match, he looked eerily familiar.

“Please, it is my fault she got so angry,” the mage huffed, stumbling through the snow. “I must have riled her up with my stories. Don’t punish her, I beg of you!”

“What are you talking about?” Cullen questioned, realizing then that the sharpness in his voice coming from the shortness of breath could easily be confused for anger. Emery didn’t seem bothered by it at all.

“Kitty was upset about the Templar practice in the yard, and I- I know it was small and probably routine, but still…” Cullen felt a covert and careful look on him, which Emery averted when no reaction followed. “She told me about her life in the Circle, how little she was allowed to do and how she was picked on, and I- I shared what it was like for me in Kirkwall, thought I could- bond with her, I suppose.”

Cullen winced, but without a direct eye contact, he could hope the other man didn’t notice. His entire left side resonated to the mention in numbing pain, but the faint recollection of Emery’s face, at least, made sense.

“I told her about my friend… Oh, I shouldn’t have,” Emery abruptly stopped, and without much thought, Cullen did as well. “Lisa and I were brought in about the same time, but we never really spoke until days before her Harrowing. She… she was very dear to me.”

“What happened?” Cullen asked, aware that the answer was bound to be solemn, if not outright morbid. He couldn’t tell why he inquired.

Emery stared into the ground below his feet, hands in the air as if he wanted to bury his face in them. He maintained silence for a short while, and luckily the rest of the group remained in sight.

“Knight-Command- No… _Meredith_ had her made Tranquil,” he muttered and Culled barely caught himself from stumbling on the spot. “You probably… Not like she could ever practice blood magic in secret… The demons would have her the moment she’d turn to it.”

Emery shook his head, and if the memory caused him deep grief, it wasn’t displayed on his face. He looked past Cullen, onto the outline of Skyhold, peeking over the cliffs not too far ahead, and picked up the hike. 

“I should have brought it up to the Grand Enchanter. Why did I not see I was making it worse?” the young man muttered to himself, and the rest of the way they walked in anxious silence.

When they reached the yard, it was ordinarily lively, with hardly anyone paying them more than a moment of attention. The soldiers carried Kitty away towards the makeshift clinic without a prompt, and he was left there with Emery at his side. If their previous conversation was any indication whatsoever, the mage expected some sort of a punishment to be dealt. Cullen rubbed his eyes until the sensation of the cold leather against the skin was no longer pleasant.

“Go fetch the Grand Enchanter,” he instructed, and the other man acknowledged the command with a nod. As he watched Emery disappear within the keep, Cullen finally uncurled his fists - only to find them trembling and weak. The grievous memories of the last time that had happened stole his breath away, dizzy and bewildered, and the part of him which dreaded the helplessness reminded: the only thing to stop it from ever happening again was lyrium.


	9. Seeing red

The mirror refused to sit against Solona’s bent knees, slipping to lean on the side adorned with an ornament of a two fish, their tails tangled together. Resigned, she put down the knife and held the frame with both hands, tilting it to span the view as much to her side as she could.

She caught a good look of her face, too, no longer a twisted reflection in a basin or a dimmed glass. With dark shadows under her eyes, she was hardly a blooming image of health, but at least the frost maintained a splash of pink across her face. Solona pushed a finger into her cheek, studying the white of her eyes: if the corruption were to start there, dimming her sight, it hadn’t set just yet.   

A knock on the door found her in a deep rumination. Hastily, she glanced over the mess of hair all around and fixed the folds on the top sheet with a swift tug. Tidiness was expected neither from a mage nor from a Warden, but she preferred to keep up the appearances, nobility and all.

The visitor turned out to be Leliana, a letter in hand.

“For the love of Andraste, what happened to you?” her friend exclaimed, rushing inside and sternly closing the door – all in one brisk and agile move. The spymaster made a full circle around Solona, feet silent as if they never touched the floor, and within a blink of an eye turned from a worried friend into a bard ready to cover up a large scandal.  

“I was not done yet,” Solona retorted, tugging at the strands still reaching her chest. Under the watchful eye, she resorted to the helpful uncertainty of mumbling. “It was getting in my eyes all the time, and I think- I think even one of your birds was already harboring ideas of nesting in it…”

“That is ridiculous,” Leliana sneered at the top of her breath, “they don’t make ne- Oh.”

With a smirk she didn’t feel the slightest guilt for, Solona returned to her place on the bed, careful to tap for the knife first. Her fingers were far less compliant under Leliana’s keen gaze, particularly with the other woman standing almost motionless. There was no danger to her, not the way Solona saw it, but far less eeriness, too.

“I assume that is for me,” Solona guessed, gauging the length of a thick lock, and glanced at Leliana in the mirror. The other woman nodded, meeting the reflection of her eyes. “What does it say?”

“You tell me,” Leliana released a short scoff, then immediately bounced into seriousness. “I will hand it over once you’re done vandalizing your hair.”

It didn’t take long: Solona’s measurements were crude and her hands weren’t used to such a task, but she made several decisive cuts before putting the knife down. As if on a cue, Leliana approached to place the letter in Solona’s lap and proceeded to run her swift fingers through the chopped strands, having met no objection whatsoever.

While her friend worked on the hair tips with a vastly superior skill, Solona managed to make short work of the nondescript seal with a simple spell and brought up the paper to her eye level. The lines were clumsy and uneven.

Avernus. Her fingers dug into the palms, knuckles aching under the pressure.

“Are the news good?” Leliana asked softly, and her voice did not at all match the ease with which she was handling the knife.

“One of my… researchers working on the Calling. Gives me a piece of his mind,” finding the right passage wasn’t difficult: written in large letters it stood out in the otherwise cramped letter. Leliana hardly had a cause to be just as perturbed, so she kept on quietly working while Solona provided the gist of the writing. The mage cleared her throat. “To quote, I _brought back a steaming pile of dragon dung to justify_ my _absence… and while we are on that subject_ \- He needs me to procure a sample of dragon blood since I’ve _made him curious._ ”

Her thumbs rubbed the parchment, too firmly not to leave a pair of wrinkles. She could hear the sound it made, probably Leliana as well.

Solona exhaled, throat tight.

“With all honesty, it is not as if I knew what I was doing,” she confessed with a twinge of reluctance. Leliana hummed, but it was impossible to tell if she was merely keeping herself entertained through the work. “I just… imagined something would come out of it, is all.”

“The man should get what he wants, it seems,” the spymaster suggested after a brief pause as she set Solona’s head straight with a firm hand. “There were sightings in the Hinterlands, but I hope you can excuse my scouts for not being eager to investigate.”

“I can imagine why,” Solona answered with a smile, tossing the letter to the side. She remained silent, shifting her focus onto the task of keeping still, all with red strands sliding down her clothing, often straight into her lap. It was then that she noticed the tension in her legs, accommodating the twisted pose she had no choice but to adopt. “Did your agents end up figuring out who I was?”

She heard a short laugh. The sound made her warm in the stomach, shoulders dropping after a surprising wave of relief.

Rather than provide an immediate answer, Leliana walked around the bed and leaned forward, looking at everything but Solona’s eyes.   

“I would not say so, no,” the spymaster made a few brisk cuts close to the ears. “Fisher thinks a drunken throwaway joke is enough to grant a victory, but that is still up to debate.”

Leliana offered the mirror, proudly flashing a smirk. Neat and simple, the new look easily fixed the wear and tear Solona had acquired along the road, courtesy of sleepless nights and unkind winds. The mage gave it a sharp shake, and it complied with a gracious bob.

“Just when I think I know exactly how wonderful you are,“ Solona smiled and reached out to hold her friend’s hand. It was a simple gesture, but it was as much about them as anything else was – they were long beyond words. Leliana seemed to instill and urge this delicateness, or so it looked like in the glimmer of her eyes.

Following the Spymaster’s sudden visit, the arrival of the correspondence from Vigil’s keep came as no wonder. The news of her return had not passed unnoticed, and having someone to address their complaints to once more, the numerous nobles of varying station generously saddled the messengers with weighty letters. The slimmer envelopes, on the other hand, carried information and additional work that was at least aligned with her interests. And nothing of her men, she researched thoroughly.

The lingering bitterness over Avernus’ rebuke and the ramifications of it, however, burrowed firmly in her thoughts. Even if his reproval she could fight, him forgetting the rank and plain decency was an unsettling sign.  

She didn’t have the time to get to any of the replies. With a helpful reminder from a young and fretful scout, Solona made it right on time to the war room meeting, earning a curious, but rather covert look from the Ambassador. She kept to herself for most of the council, a skill that had been handily practiced in the royal palace of Denerim, but took charge of the remainder of the Orlesian Wardens as soon as their prospects came up.

The Inquisitor, once he was done with the assignments, reported a lead on a red lyrium operation in the Hinterlands that he was eager to investigate. No one could accuse the man of being noticeably bored with the talking, and his eyes did wander: at the walls, along the cracks in the stone floor, through the window and far out. She recognized the concern immediately.

Skyhold seemed invincible, calm, serene, if only rattled by the news and people returning with their weapon blood-soaked - but never truly in danger itself. The visitors walked, and if they ran, it was not with the dire urgency of imminent death breathing down their necks. Nothing like it was out there, in the plains. She knew it, the Inquisitor knew it, and it was hanging in the air, unspoken.

Without exchanging as much as a nod, Trevelyan caught up with her in the large hall: a light tap on her forearm was enough to warrant her attention. Solona understood, trailing in his steps to seclusion.

“There is something,” he waited until he was sure no one could hear them. Candlelit, the room he had led her to was small and allowed for little space between them. She could see the cruel imprint of pain in the corners of his eyes, but above all that – drawn-out agitation, swirling in his face like he wasn’t trying to hide it at all. She found her hands crossed behind her back. “I did not know how to bring it up with you - if ever.”

“Then I appreciate that you decided to do so, Lord Trevelyan.”

He held his eyes closed for a drawn-out moment and let a noticeable gulp travel down his throat. Solona looked down: a battled rug of indistinguishable origin on the floor did very little to alleviate the unwelcoming feeling of the room.

“What I saw in the Fade,” Trevelyan began despite the grit of his jaw, “it was a memory, I assume…”

He paused, eyes locked with hers. The man couldn’t be older than twenty-five, she thought.

“The Fade has a habit of twisting anything you see, feel or _think_. I’m afraid, such is its nature,” Solona offered, the tranquillity of her words misaligned with the tight knot in her throat. He glanced at the floor, mulling over her remark if she were to guess, until he finally gave his head a light shake.

“I believe it to be trustworthy, Lady Amell,” he concluded with finality. “It was Divine Justinia, when she passed, and I received this- this Anchor…”

“This was in your report,” Solona nodded in an interruption hardly called for.

Trevelyan lowered his shoulders, his breath heavy, and moved his lips wordlessly. Her heart read the clues long before her mind did, responding with deafening thuds.

“The ones helping Corypheus were the Wardens.”

She caught herself, sealing a breathy “no” from escaping. The rest of her body, however, was dead set on yanking the floor from under her feet: at once her head felt too big and too light to be resting on her shoulders, and her arms were too heavy, pulling at the tense shoulders. All she managed was to stand perfectly still, or at least she hoped she did.

“This wasn’t in your report,” Solona heard her voice like it was coming from afar, like it belonged to someone else, tactlessly calm and poised.  

“The allies are scarce, Warden-Commander. But allow me to assure you: it is something I can hardly place myself,” Trevelyan held up his arm, and Solona tracked the motion with her eyes. It was an odd gesture, and while she perceived it to be an offer of comfort, it put her on guard. The air, she felt, was charged, as if the tension from her muscles was spreading outwards. “And yet I did not think- did not believe it a reason significant enough to reject your help.”

Solona allowed herself to remain silent, let the initial wave of anger to die down: _again, as if the siege of Adamant wasn’t enough._

“I understand,” she replied deceptively. “Where you are coming from, that is.”

“I am sure this is some kind of a misunderstanding, Lady Amell,” Trevelyan offered in an expected manner, “but I cannot afford to ignore what I saw.”

“Nor you should,” Solona agreed, her gaze traveling down to the Inquisitor’s glove-clad hand. He never appeared with the Mark exposed, something only for the eyes of the trusted mages, she reckoned. Templars too. Cassandra, of course.

“And if you find anything about it, why would that be happening, we would greatly appreciate it.”

She nodded, finally allowing herself to look at his face. That was it, she thought with apathy, what she was needed for. To tame an unforeseeable ally to the Corypheus’ onslaught. She couldn’t take a liking to it, but she didn’t hate the idea either.

Avoiding all further contact, she returned back to her quarters and, seated comfortably on her bed, thought to the time long ago, deep in a tunnel with moist and heavy air. The knowledge, so rare, unique truly, that had been passed onto her there by a benevolent spirit, allowed her to trespass further into the Fade than most awake mages could. And if Solona could maintain the proper balance in that disheveled state, she could do it at any moment.

She wasn’t interrupted until she thought it was enough, until she was fully in control of the emotions she allowed on her face. There were still Wardens in the Orlesian territories, disorganized, in need of her. Her Wardens too, Solona reminded herself sternly.

She dug into the matter with the vigor of a predator that had finally trapped its prey. There were provisions, chain of command, relocation to think of. A few contacts she could impose on. Character reports she could inquire. Her hands were full, and her mind was grateful. Solona may not have slept well that night, stirring and alert to every noise, but it was much better the ones after.

The upcoming visit to the Winter Palace left the top brass of the Inquisition quite busy, and she was to assist in the forces redistribution particularly across Ferelden. She knew the land well and had to make do with a smaller amount of men, as they struggled to clear the path along to Orlais. A courtesy, Solona understood. She would’ve done so as well, with the negotiations looming on the horizon.

In that helpful hustle, she had to walk a lot, often with her thoughts completely elsewhere - as she always did; until one fresh morning she walked right into a rumbling crowd. Solona must’ve heard it from afar, but it didn’t really bother her until there were people right in her way.

There were angry outbursts, calls to violence, and after a few unsuccessful attempts to peek, she noticed a man squashed between two guards being dragged through the courtyard. The prisoner had shackles on, different though. Something emanated off them, something that made the hairs on her neck stand up.

“Who is that?” Solona closed in on the nearest soldier, at least he wore the soldier uniform, and grabbed him by the shoulder. In his anger, the man didn’t even flinch, only turned in one swift motion and eyed her head to toe.

“That blasted magister what’s-his-name,” he finally grunted wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The one they captured in Adamant.”

A small remaining bit of sense urged her to produce a nod.  

\---

A sharp knock on his door found him halfway through the lengthy letter from Rylen: as detailed and impartial as his report was, Cullen couldn’t help but feel the man’s exasperation, hidden in the firm press of the quill against the delicate paper. It took a moment to distance himself from the stuffy and achingly dry conditions his soldiers suffered through in the wastelands of the Western Approach, and he caught himself staring absentmindedly at the slices of bright blue sky visible through the hole in his roof.

A boy with freckles all over his face, Finn, if memory still served him well, stepped in Cullen’s office and seemingly forgot how to speak, opting to chew at the inner side of his cheek instead.

“Yes?” Cullen encouraged, struggling to hold his irritation at bay. The aches were coming and going, and in the past few days they had been making another vicious return.

“Commander-“ Finn breathed in, steeling himself, “sir Blackwall is missing. He left voluntarily, to be more precise.”

Cullen couldn’t help but feel relief upon hearing the news. It could have been so much worse.

“Voluntarily?” he prodded. That didn’t seem so bad, perhaps a discipline breach, but those close to the Inquisitor had a different set of rules applied to them. Which, Cullen was keenly aware, included him as well.

“Sir Inquisitor has been notified, Commander. He would know more.”

It turned out to be worse than he expected, after all. However vague Blackwall’s letter was, it stated quite clearly he was set on not returning.

“Leaving the Inquisition? At a time like this?” Cassandra scoffed, but with less energy than when she had just found out about it, Cullen imagined.

Leliana pushed herself off a wall and stepped closer to the confused group. She eyed everyone in the room, but it was really directed at the Inquisitor alone.

“It would make sense to scout the borders with Orlais. We have an increased presence there now, and he seems likely to have traveled in that direction.”

“He knows that as well,” Cullen interfered, fighting the urge to tap his foot, “so why would he venture through our troops if his wish is to disappear?”

“Because that is the only way to go, really,” Leliana responded. She seemed the least reluctant to treat it as a problem it was, and it was clear to Cullen she had thought about it long on the way to their meeting. Cullen hadn’t. He couldn’t think why. “We likely will not let the word out fast enough. The camps are not that well established yet, but at least we can track his movements, I believe.”

The pause seemed to conclude everyone agreed with Leliana. Josephine had not spoken a word since she came in, but hers was the most evident worry. She wasn’t puzzled like the Inquisitor and Cullen himself, or bothered like Cassandra and Leliana. He felt a pang of sympathy, the kind reserved just for her.

“ _Not who we thought he was_ ,” Cassandra repeated, the content of the letter still fresh in her memory. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It could mean many things,” Inquisitor replied wearily. “Did he ever talk to Lady Amell?”

Cullen was about to answer that there was no time, that the paperwork alone was a nightmare, but then he noticed the question wasn’t aimed at him, or at everyone in the room. Trevelyan was looking at Leliana.

She answered exactly that, and her plan to inform the scouts in Orlais and wait met no resistance. It hardly encumbered anyone with additional tasks, but the mood was sour. Was it real deceit, or some misjudgment on Blackwall’s part, something he considered significant only for the rest to brush it off? No one could tell – the man had left with barely a word of a real explanation.  

Cullen didn’t feel anger. Neither did he feel concern for whatever Blackwall knew being exposed to the enemy – which no doubt plagued Leliana’s mind. Maybe he expected something like that to happen, not with Blackwall specifically, but with _someone_.

They haven’t heard anything in the next few days either, as was to be expected. When they gathered for another meeting before the Inquisitor’s departure after the red lyrium operation, Leliana only shook her head in reply – and the matter was dropped.

It didn’t take long for the Inquisitor to leave, and Leliana did not linger either. Josephine handed a few trading reports to Amell and informed them she would have a lunch with Vivienne. Cullen paused at the door.

“Everyone tells me I should take more breaks and-” he sucked in a large chunk of air, rubbing the back of his neck. Amell looked up from the reports. “You know, the very same could be said about you… I mean, not that you look like it, I am not saying you-“

One glance was enough to confirm she didn’t, in fact, take it the wrong way, if her amused smile was anything to go by. Cullen cleared his throat and continued with a voice that, he could only hope, betrayed very little of his nervousness.

“Have you seen the gardens?”

Amell had, of course, but they headed down there regardless, not before she threw a brief but distressed look behind his back – something he couldn’t quite make sense of.

The herbalist, he told her on the way, struggled to keep the area quiet, and it called for slow walks and quiet conversation, if any at all, – something about the plants and their special needs. In the corners, where daylight could still reach the surfaces, several pots harbored young stems, indiscernible from weeds on a brief and amateur glance.

They settled on a bench in the shade, away from the lane leading back into the front yard. The entire garden was laid out in front of them: the presence of a shrine nearby made the garden one of the most frequented places in Skyhold, but the visitors were so caught up in their own thoughts they rarely paid them more than a blank surveying glance. Cullen couldn’t blame them – on the contrary, he was thankful for the lack of attention.

“I cannot help but wonder,” Amell spoke and brought him out of the daze, “where you keep the mabari. It is odd I haven’t heard anyone mention the kennels – or seen one, for that matter.”

With that almost childlike excitement she looked younger, and that came with a great deal of surprise: Circle mages had rarely expressed interest in the mabari, and neither had she. Then again, he reminded himself, she was a whole different kind of mage.

“Oh, that’s right,” Cullen snickered sheepishly, resting his elbows on the knees and leaning close into the clasped palms. There was little fidgetiness to his moves, he realized, despite reluctance to continue. “We… we don’t.”

She looked confused more so than disappointed, eyebrow raised.

“That is not very Fereldan of you,” she chuckled after a short pause, and he timely caught himself from pointing out she wasn’t one at all. They had never discussed it, and he wasn’t about to spoil the conversation with how he had come into the possession of that knowledge.

“I take it, you have one then?” Cullen asked instead. In his mind, he was already laying out the arrangements of establishing kennels on the Skyhold grounds, or at least nearby, and the idea of it, as frail as it was, got him stirred to the extent he could not anticipate. Cullen turned at her, expecting a story.

“I did,” was all Amell said with what he could only read as finality. She laced her fingers, thumbs tracing lines on her skin soothingly.

“Oh. I’m sorry”

“No, it is alright,” she waved her hand in a weak attempt to chase off the wistfulness out of her voice. “He deserves to be spoken about.”

“What was his name?”

“Barkspawn,” Amell gave up, lips stretching into a smile after a visible struggle.

“Barkspawn,” he echoed, pouring in a purposeful pause. Her smile grew into a chuckle, pink creeping up her cheeks.

“In my defense, I wasn’t the one who named him… quite so aptly, I must add,” she betrayed once Cullen felt the grin die on his lips. The levity quickly dissolved, as Amell turned her attention inwards and continued with barely any spirit. “He passed away on the road. From age and old injuries, I would think. A truly bad call on my part: I shouldn’t have taken him with me at all, but-“

Cullen knew what she was about to say. It wasn’t the deep creases between her eyebrows, or the way her voice broke. He just knew.

“He wouldn’t have it any other way,” she finished, and Cullen couldn’t hold back a hearty nod. The bond between a mabari and their owner was nothing short of a miracle, despite its often somber ending, particularly at the dreadful times such as Blights. Cullen had often wondered if he was ever worthy of such an unequivocal loyalty. He expected not to like the answer.

“True warrior spirit,” Cullen mumbled. He couldn’t find much else to say, but that little he was sure of.

With a corner of his eye he saw her study him with almost fondness; there was no doubt in his mind it was for her deceased companion, some memory that had sprung to her mind, but he didn’t dare look back and shake her out of it. Finally, she spoke: “Thank you.”

It was a moment of calm he would come to hold in his memory for a long time, as the preparations for their departure to the Winter Palace have been given a priority, swallowing them all in a whirlwind of missives and messengers.

Cullen saw the uniform, and during the fitting all he could think of was how wrong it sat on him regardless of the skill applied to it, how tightly it cuffed his throat. It was a luxury he had never experienced before: among the templars the best a knight could do was hope he was close enough to the standard shape. He personally could never quite get the right boots.

It was red, too, and had no plating to it. Cullen tried to argue, and Cassandra has vehemently supported him, but to no avail. They were not to appear militant, Josephine insisted. The high collars were to remain as well.

With only a mere fortnight until their departure, Cullen found himself in restless anticipation. Luckily, the commotion always died down past sunset, and he had discovered it was easier to fall asleep with a lungful of frosty air.

His route was quite common, taking him through the battlements around the perimeter; it doubled as an alertness check for the guards stationed there. Cullen doubted they appreciated it very much, but more often than not he let a drowsy salute slide.

The night before the Inquisitor was expected to return from the red lyrium mines, Cullen had to make a small detour. He heard voices in the yard – not a squabble, but more heated than a regular conversation, and with little effort he spotted the figures.

“Commander!” the guard noticed his approach and immediately stood to attention. As discreetly as he could, the man threw an expressive glance at Amell at his side. “I- Warden-Commander is requesting an audience with the prisoner but I keep telling her-“

Cullen hardly needed to hear the rest of it. She would want to speak to the man, he had expected as much since the imprisonment verdict came in.

“Cu- Commander, please,” was all she said.

“Let us through,” Cullen let out with authority. He tried not to think too much about it, and the guard offered no further resistance. When they finally were outside the man’s earshot, he prodded for what little explanation he could get: “This could not wait until daylight?”

“Not really,” she replied, planting her steps carefully ahead of him.

The staircase was wet and still untouched by the renovation workers. It was evident in the air, too, heavy with moisture and reeking of old rugs. Erimond was probably locked in a far corner, Cullen guessed, and denied any light, he knew for sure.

Amell lit a torch on the wall with one swift move: it wouldn’t have given in to anything less than magic. Immediately, there was rustling heard from the only occupied cell.

It took a moment for Cullen’s sight to adjust, but the magister needed quite longer. His moves were sluggish and slow as he struggled towards the bars, trying to get a good look at the visitors before they got one of him.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Erimond tested his voice. Cullen himself never had the grief of facing the man before, “I’m sorry if I cannot offer you any seating.”

Instinctively, Cullen looked around, cursing himself as he did. There were only broken crates scattered along the further wall, void of any contents. He thought to edge closer towards them to have a better view of the cell but decided against it.

“Warden-Commander Amell,” the magister spoke with uncertainty at first, but once she did not object, continued. “The artists hardly do you any justice… My master would have much preferred to work with you rather than Clarel. Rumour has it, you would be less reluctant to see things our way.”

Cullen tried not to assign much weight to the magister’s words, but he couldn’t escape how _wrong_ it felt to even stand there.  

“You have a strange understanding of what makes a compliment,” she retorted. Cullen could hear a strain in her voice, only hoping the magister would be too bothered with himself to notice.

“And you have a strange understanding of what makes a mage talk,” for the first time, it seemed, the magister acknowledged Cullen’s presence. The cat-like eyes focused on him, a look filled with disdain and fear. Cullen crossed his arms but didn’t say a word. “Or is it not a polite visit? Is it, perhaps, vengeance that you seek?”

Not once had she reached for her weapon, and although she wouldn’t need one to deal with the weakened and subdued Erimond, Amell didn’t even bring one. Vengeance wasn’t it. He had known since the moment she asked him at the prison doors.

“Why didn’t you go after my people?”

“We _know_ the talking darkspawn told them to hide. And we know- _ah!_ ” a crooked grin spread across the magister’s face, stripping any softness from the man’s already sharp features – Erimond looked ghoulish, pale, with blue blotches generously spattered on his face and hands. But the magister spared Cullen no look, entirely enthralled by Amell’s defiant posture. He saw something, Cullen, understood, and his own anger was promptly stifled by rising worry. What a _talking darkspawn_ even meant was an entirely different discussion. “You didn’t know… You didn’t know!”

The magister cackled, that desperate sound Cullen had grown used to; and in that fleeting moment of clarity he saw vividly both he and Amell were merely an entertainment for a man left entirely to his own, quite finite, devices. Cullen felt his scowl grow deeper, blood thumping loudly in his ears. The insides of his veins were burning, aching for something that would snuff out the arrogance out of Erimond’s voice.

“How curious indeed!” the magister continued as Amell remained hesitant to talk. “You are not so in control now, are you, _Warden-Commander_?”

Cullen was about to caution her, fingers twitching at his sides, but instead ran a hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes tight – he knew the magister wasn’t watching anyway. He coldly mused if, perhaps, he was the one in need of restraint.

The magister spoke again, unhindered, as if in love with the sound of his own dry voice.

“Did you really, for one moment, believe the High Priest of Urthemiel _has forgotten_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have had this chapter drafted almost completely and sitting on my computer for a long time, but inspiration is one hell of an evasive thing these days. I sincerely hope it's better late then never.
> 
> I'd like to thank the lovely Erized for the supportive and inspirational comments that were always in the back of my mind when I was planning the next writing session to push out this update. Here's to all of you who might still be following this story!


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